Saturday, 13 November 2010


In that world I was the sculptor of my own convoluted identity. 
I could live in whatever twisted dream I created.
As a youth I spent many selfish nights in muffled contemplation.
Constructing my façades with a cruel detachment from reality, whatever that was. 
The citizen of the mindful pretence.
The treader of the line.
The storyteller of the times forgotten.
A mockery.

No comments:

Post a Comment