Transmute

Identity
A young boy addressing a puppet.
If I could be you...
I would be so in a second.
How often I have said that phrase
and how strange it is to say it now
to you -- a mask that hides the face.
But you stare at me with your obedient eyes
and I cannot help but ponder
how it must be to only have a head,
carved and cloned by your creator,
and to perhaps no longer endure
the plight of thoughts that wander.
Miranda tell me of this brave new world
and grant me understanding of the feeling:
To needn’t care for a mistaken figure
and to have a mind that’s governed less
by all one feels she must suppress.
Among these goodly creatures I must ask
why is it we cannot take pride
in what brings us together, and cast away
that which would drive us apart?
I should think it nice to be no longer burdened
by the weight of self acceptance
and to be permitted
to brood over thoughts that truly matter --
issues less to do with semblance
and more focussed on the essence
of my true standing as a sapien.
Quiet now.
I see your whisper.
I see it in the drooping of your eyes.
You needn’t tell me of the struggles caused
by perceiving only what they show us
and by possessing inadequate knowledge
so we cannot cope when we’re alone.
Your head and mine both carry the same strife.
Our eyes both secrete the same tearless cry
of knowing not of our identity.
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