The Replicas
In strangers, I catch glimpses of a familiar face.
I have seen, met or known them before,
rather, I might have been an echo of them.
If I were honest, I’d confess, I was them once.
Shedding skins doesn’t come naturally to me.
I clung on to the former rendition of me;
an old coat, past its prime,
yet a comfortable cocoon;
Trends and fashions be damned.
Much too late, I realized, I’d held on for far too long.
Naked, I hid when it was ripped away.
The fabric had fused with me; a part of me,
it also took a part of me with it.
I bled and scabbed, grew a fresh skin,
with seams of scars. I healed into someone else.
Yet on the street, I find others dressed in it.
Not a similar coat, but with the same frayed collar,
threadbare pocket, and a patched elbow.
Even the cracked button. I follow the wearers,
wondering if they stole who I was from me.
Or was I just one of many, produced en masse
with the same weaknesses; suffer the same damage?
But then I turn my back on my prior selves,
for I have a new attire, broken in to fit
the current, slightly unshapely version of me.
Maybe someday I will meet my clone too.
A doppelgänger, attired same as me.
We’ll recognize the other, nod, and walk away,
mindful that neither was, is, and will be unique.
For we all go through the same grind,
shattered, with parts missing,
the rest, mismatched pieces
somehow glued together.
The fabric of us, worn, torn, darned,
Aren't we all trapped in the same hell,
yet somehow tortured by different devils.
Posted: 6th October 2024
