A stranger I am to my own

an afterimage of a reflection

deceived by poems and songs

of who I was, a clone

of my mind-self belongs

only to my own deception.


But none told of the impossibility

walking on clouds a skill

I sought with perfection

discovering my unique inability

to find happiness in my direction

and my empty glass fill.


And when I look up at the sky

I see droplets of crystals and water

instead of castles and giants

while the ground feels hard and dry

I’m no longer defiant

when dreams no longer matter.



2 thoughts on “Afterimage

  1. Jazz says:

    So poignant …

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