The Crucible of Subjective Self-Identity

A sonnet

Photo by author

twenty revolutions as another
not me, but the one I purport to be
tired, broken, no longer want the other
I try, can’t shed the ink tattooed on me
I fear its death, so let it hasten mine
inhumed and immured, in an unmarked grave:
I wish it to be, for it is malign
dissever from self, or remain its slave
wizened, aged, in need of some respite
awake to the wreckage, few grains…