I wake up I am him
the man in me
a stiff-jointed remote
reminiscence of what has been
buried under gridlocked
layers and layers of time
so remote that
dusty swirls whirl
placidly in the tenderest of all morning suns
and embrace
the stiffness of his crackly limbs
I am not
I have
possibly
been
What I am is to be proven
time and again and always anew
What I thought I have been
is a dream
I have
possibly
dreamt.
