Tessellate your apprehension, bind your name in lore.
Dissect every waking moment, locks on every door.
Drowning in the cloak of self, nothing here to see,
feast on the eyes and trade away your forest for a tree.
Boil down your hoarded gold, ask the gods for iron.
Polish your crown invisible, no one left to govern.
Your anger hums in dissonance with everything you say,
such a complex situation, drives us all away.
Like a drunkard waving his arms, an epic tale he yells,
we trace our life in weighted story, forever we re-tell,
so tragic the way we flatten our worth with that voice inside our heads,
as if our pain, our love, our job our story actually said -
anything about the endless complexity of who we actually are,
pretending like we can define it won\'t get us very far.
It\'s the cause of every tragedy, the source of all our pain.
Identity is such a facade, all it touches left with stain,
a stain of desperation, inauthenticity and fear.
We are more than the flat amalgam of our years.
Your story does not lend or maliciously steal any of your worth,
we still don\'t fully understand how this sentience thing works.
Like the drunkard in the spotlight, and the voice inside his head,
we all enact a story that consistently ends in dread.
We are not the story, thoughts, the voice inside our heads,
we are the one who listens to it, formless in its stead.