Who is this man walking in my past?
I despise to defend this man.
Who is this mockingbird
who mimics me in the mirror
and is desperately hanging
onto rusted clasps
of all, I ever pretended to be,
the twines
that I hanged my laundries of festered wounds?
Who is holding to my shadow?
I could never stand him.
This man I drag behind
he who I left yet
trailing through my own Via Dolorosa,
the man that I sacrificed
and still carry him like a cross
to my
crucifixion climax.
