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
no matter from when or what
Are rather like outside faces:
They be not always truthful.