Lines Between Living

As time passes, the veil falls away

what I wanted to be and what was are two different rooms.

I built a perfect scene out of hope and paper,

a stage lit for someone who never walked on.

In the backdrop I find no name for me,

no introduction, no ceremony  only footsteps

measured in stones that promised a path and stole my footing.

There were flowers, yes, soft and bright at first;

I stepped through them and watched them wilt beneath my soles.

Memory blurs where longing crowded the light;

the ache was haute couture, tailor-made illusion.

Now the seams show. Now the truth is simple and blunt:

I am not the audience, I am not the prize.

I am the one who unties the curtain and walks out into my own.