The Stranger Within
Between myself and I
someone else rises,
a stranger (within the shells and shields of me)
to my heart (within its sculpted briar labyrinths)
yet, not to my own skin (within its petals and hidden layers)
wears my undone hair, breathes the same air, that I do
walks on my cloths, carries my sorrows
and yet, does not know the shape of my face,
or the colour of my eyes… only half of my soul.
Haunts the sun and every light
longing the shadows
over the sidewalk where I pass.
The park trees bend, lowing their branches
with their mermaid leaves
as if wuthering heights in a bottle-glass.
Then follows the Moon and eats the night
writing thousand of poems, stealing my sleep, staring at my pillow
as I do… a thousand more… my pen from the weeping-willow.
My life and death captive on this stranger’s hands
Am I only,