Like Crumpled Paper

The face I wear is not my own

Arbitrary and beyond design

An accident of flesh

Colliding data in the womb made real

The truest faces lie within

concealed from view

Lit only by the dim glow of the psyche

And there are many scattered about

Like so many crumpled bits of paper

that surround an author’s wastebasket.

To walk among these faces is a privilege of life

To know instinctively when each could call itself yours

Each is true, was true, could be true

Faces are shells

Each serves its time and purpose

Some protect, some express.

The time comes when I outgrow my face


I remove it

Cast it among the others

And a new one grows in place

It will be a new me

A fresh way of being me

Will it be frigid or frail?

Clever or dumb-tongued?

Will I be a man or a woman?

The future leaves tracks in the past

But in the end, the faces inside are

a roll of the dice

a cast of the cards

A toss of the coin

After all


no matter from when or what

Are rather like outside faces:

They be not always truthful.


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