The I in the soul patch slapped off my face
Spread scattered ego shuffling on the breeze
Over every emaciated place
Diminished by my exile’s treason’s ease.
.
The man in my mirror, the man in my dreams
Splits snicker-snack in the caesura’s claws,
Neatly striking my name from where I’ve been
And scribbling it back in between the pause.
.
Same sign, new meaning: a coincidence
Of arbitrary logos advertising
Two different products—and yet all sense
Points at the sameness the change tries disguising.
.
So on these stilted thoughts wobbling across
My portrait, I know I and he are me,
But marvel that a mask’s symbolic loss
Can warp my memories based on what I see.