Happy in one’s skin?

Who am I?
What makes me different from you?
Why what is so obvious to me, is alien to you?
Do I love myself; hate myself, what is ‘Self’?
My eyes see, or do they?

The mystery of identity, this strange endless coastline that draws me to its wandering hopes, where I meet the ghost of myself..

On that seascape of wandering, far in the distance another man approaches, we pass not acknowledging each other for fear of intruding into personal space, oh the vast endless despaired stupidity there is in that action.

People locked in bodies that only know
a slumber-land view of the world,
an inverted heap of flesh,
useless to all but self.

Time is hungry for those clones now,
hungry to make
Empires and enemies.

And when that brave new world
has eaten the meek and kind,
will anyone ask;
“Who am I?”

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