who we really are is a frustrating secret
locked in chambers dark. filled with echoes
repeating what we've been told, taught, and sold
clicking away - vibrating in a pulse of rainfall
that we do not feel. Sopping, sobbing, wet.
who we really are eludes us every corner
ghostlike, shadow shrouded wispy drawn
sketched on page prepared but torn, tearful, and faded
dropping away - ringing in tones of tools
we can not carry. We touch nothing uninvited, withheld.
who we are is right there in front of us.
don't you see it?
(c) 2017 douglas brent smith