Shrapnel …
the journeys have been tiresome,
pock-marked with wounds,
raw,
open,
the silent stab of nagging shrapnel,
of emotions,
shredded,
discarded,
stripping my soul bare,
naked,
exposed,
to the winds of unborn tomorrows …
the journey continues,
staggering,
hither and thither,
the self unsure,
gutted,
a heart,
a mind,
a long forgotten kiss,
like salt on burnt skin,
shrapnel embedded deep within,
the recesses of a desolate heart,
a desert of nothingness ahead,
but for that mirage,
a faint hazy oasis,
where I finally see you,
your eyes a vision of distilled truth …
“who are you?”, you ask of me,
“I am not yet him”, I say,
“I have yet to become me” …
