Who am I?
Well, I know this -
I am NOT you.
Unless of course,
you slept and dreamed
that we touched souls
in the night, merging
into one.
Who am I?
I am NOT who
you think I am.
Unless of course,
just in the thinking
you brought me into being -
formed me like some
imaginary friend.
Who am I?
Well, I’m NOT sure -
does it really matter
in the end?
Perhaps I am just
here, now,
in this moment
of you, wondering
who I am.
Let me think …
Is it almonds, butterscotch?
or chocolate coated marzipan?
It could be caramel even,
but it’s duskier than that.
Powdery, like sun dried sheets
or bathwater patchouli.
And then there’s citrus too,
(but not too perky)
like mulled wine
or lemon grove dew
in the morning.
All are scent of you.
Behind the puppet show
where children never go,
there stands a lonely man
who tugs the strings
that bind the arms
of childish things.
Behind the puppet show
and stripy canvas throws,
lie nervous little hands
with spinnered plans
to hide the charms
that clownhood brings.