The ghost of myself in the mirror;
It’s a phantom,
And it can’t contain my mind,
Not my spirit,
Nor my indelible memories.
But still this figure glares;
Sizing up the corporeal counterpart,
as if usurp-planning,
As if it’ll one day wear this skin
And still the memory.
This is the haunted figure,
There, but not actually
It is me, but just an abstraction;
If you laid eyes on us,
We’d be identical
The figure haunts me so;
It is a ghast, an abomination of self,
A being of multi-dimensions shredded into two,
A chimera in perfect disguise;
Who couldn’t be me because I’m me.
But to anyone else, what’s the difference?