My reflective skin
Mirrors your perception of me
Four or five people perceptions
Fuse together,
Muddling that clear sense of self
Whomever I encounter,
my voice becomes modulated
The one wearing the guise of my “self”
Becomes indistinguishable
From the other persona that
Others perceive
Am I a man, a woman, or just human?
Why does my self become detached
From this hollow idea of a man
Without the dimension
Beyond these arbitrary limits.
It is my mind
This raging, jarring machine
Whose sole purpose lies
With fabricating this distinct sense of “self”
Who’ll be multiplied in different disguises
For the consumption, or respect of others
Who am I?
I’ve never ventured to scale the heights of “Mont Blanc”
To reveal the hidden truth
Beneath the thorny shrubs
Surrounding the perimeter of “Tintern Abbey”
Imaginatively residing at the summit of
This grand, enigmatic mountain
Will death set me more free,
or make me forget
the lustrous skies, the paling moon,
and even the burning pain which
How can oblivion be at the
Seemingly endless stream of thoughts?
What is their origin, and where will they go?
Was I lost before, then found
Only to be lost again?
Can nothing greater than tangibility
Rescue me from this
Alarming awareness of my
On the exterior shell of myself,
Tears spring from my eyes
Imaginary bands of blood
Drip down me
Inexplicably, I envision Christ
Within the space of a mind
Which resolutely doubted
His message, and even his existence
“Who am I? Who am I?”
This question reverberates through me
Silence ensues
This is my prayer till eternity
Where it won’t matter any longer
If I’m a man, a woman
Or just this self-conscious mind
Slowly vanishing from sight and self
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