F is for Free Verse
Because I’m lazy, this will be free verse.
I do not know
Where the wind blows
And so I follow in the wake
Of cars and planes
Which lead me back and forth
But always astray.
I hang my heart above me like
A wan and sallow moon,
But when I cry aloud,
That is not who I speak to.
I feed each and each lies
About who I want them to see,
And each and each believes.
All believe but me…
“Who am I?” I ask the forlorn mirror,
Unfamilar. Having lived in the shadow
Of another
I’ve come not to know my face
Without my lover.
So am I canvas, blank?
Present waiting to be unwrapped?
Is there identity waiting to be tapped,
like landscape waiting to be mapped?
Or must I mold the mould
That I will break?