This Isn’t Me

Allow me please to tell you who I am: 
A youth, a boy, a long-forgotten past,
A bright young lover, brilliant in the eyes
Of her; the she who sees beyond the mask

Of quick indifference to all the world
Demands of one with so much latent hope;
I am a feeling and a moment caught —
I am a thunderstorm, a quiet rain.

Yet this, my view of me, can find no eyes
With images that match the words I choose:
I cannot shape the judgments that will form
In minds of others, who may just use sight.

For what is my identity but this:
The shortest distance between fact and rest,
Opinions cease when category’s reached,
And one need not walk on beyond one’s legs.

Yet though world, age, and weather shapes this face,
This isn’t me, within my heart’s cocoon.

Published by

Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

Leave a Reply