I am not who I am.
Locked in 21-year corridors,
Left to peep through narrow keyholes
To espy fleeting moments of fantasy
And my Darkness.
Left and right the walls,
Night-black, polished onyx,
Flaunt portraits
Of horrific romances:
How lovely they all are.
But reach to touch them as I may
And they fade behind more locked doors
Of these twilit corridors.
I am not who I am.
M.M. — October MMIX; edited December MMXI
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