TW: mental healt problems, ghostly imagery, identity crisis, existential angst.
(Truly, beloved reader, this verse descended upon me in the dead of night, just as I concluded a quest in a game. The quest bore the very title of this poem. The character therein, a tapestry of enigmas unresolved, captivated me with his complexity. Despite his unsettling deeds, I am enamored by the labyrinth of his mind. Thus, dear reader, may these lines enthrall you, despite the anguish they may contain.)
Me, myself, but not I,
A fleeting image in the glass,
A figure from which I cannot hide,
Someone akin, but not quite.
A shadowed reflection, an echo of my mind,
A ghostly visage, truth left undefined.
It lingers there with eyes so cold,
A presence felt, a story untold.
It mimics every move, each subtle sway,
Yet lacks the soul that life conveys.
In this prison of glass, confined,
A phantom form to me assigned.
Is it my fears, my doubts, my hidden pain?
A fragment of a frame, shattered and stained?
In its gaze, I see a silent plea,
To break the chains and set it free.
Me, myself, but not I,
In the mirror's depths, shadows lie.
A whispered secret, a silent cry,
Yearning for the day to fly.
In the silvered depths, the shadows play,
A dance of specters in disarray.
Each flicker, each fleeting gleam,
A part of me in a fractured dream.
Is it a mask, a veil I wear,
A silent witness to my despair?
Or a reflection of a truth unknown,
A part of me, yet not my own?
Me, myself, but not I,
A mystery that won't comply.
In the mirror's haunting light,
I seek the truth beyond the night.
One day, perhaps, I'll understand,
The phantom's touch, the ghostly hand.
Until that day, in shadows I'll remain,
Seeking the self, through joy and pain.
Me, myself, but not I,
In the depths where echoes lie.
A whispered hope, a silent sigh,
Waiting for the dawn to rise.
YOU ARE READING
Echoes of the Unspoken
PoetryHere lies a collection of poems, scattered like leaves, shared in the hope that someone might find solace and know they are not alone in their turmoil. Beware, for these poems are not for the faint of heart; they arise from the darkest recesses of m...
