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The Many Faces of Me
I have walked through evenings bent with silence,
where the hush of the streetlamp hums my name,
a hero, perhaps, in the whisper of one,
a villain in the frown of another.
I have been carved in shadows by the wary,
painted golden by the kind.
To some, I am a tempest in an unmade room,
to others, the hush of rain against glass.
Was it not yesterday I was brave,
standing tall in borrowed boots,
tilting at windmills with a fool's delight?
And yet, in another's eye, I trembled,
a thing too soft for the weight of days.
Oh, but how I have been too much!
A song sung sharp at the wrong table,
a fire burning too close to brittle walls.
And yet, to some, I have been warmth,
the quiet pulse of a lighthouse on tired waters.
I have been named.
Carved into stories I did not write.
Draped in colours I never chose.
Told where to stand, when to bow,
but the stage shifts beneath my feet.
The world is a house of mirrors,
each face a different truth,
each window another version of me.
So let me laugh at the fickle tide,
let me dance in the winds of contradiction,
let me live - oh, let me live!
not as the world sculpts me to be,
but as the wild, wandering shape of my own heart.
