A figure trails the path I tread
Not flesh
Not bone
Not born or bred
It’s just the echo of what I’ve shed
The part of me I left for dead
It moves like ink behind my name
A shadow studying its claim
It follows not from fear or blame
But from the shape I never became
Each step I take rewrites the air
A script of choices
Thin and bare
Behind me walks the one I wear
The self I almost chose to bear
I turn
The past pretends to sleep
I walk
Its symbols start to creep
It gathers all I failed to keep
A harvest grown from secrets deep
It’s not a ghost
It’s not a guide
It’s every truth
I pushed aside
It’s hunger with no mouth to hide
The mirror I have never tried
Sometimes it brushes at my sleeve
A sign of what I might believe
It asks which version I’ll retrieve
Which mask I’m willing to unweave
And still the road repeats its plea
Each corner bends its geometry
No matter who I try to be
Someone is following me
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Author:
Anthony Hanible (
Online) - Published: July 8th, 2026 01:12
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 15
- Users favorite of this poem: Anthony Hanible, Friendship
Online)
Comments2
This poem starts with a stalker or paranoid title that as one begins to read may be metaphoric in its intent. Nicely written in rhyme it unwinds as a form of conscience. Nicely done Anthony
nicely done
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