A soul is calibrated to one’s self;
Nothing else can be as honed.
Although phantasmal in sense,
A spirit feels foreign
In a container unknown.
I was trapped,
Succumb to rigmarole,
Living a life that was not my own.
Fortune was not in my eyes;
A posthumous glare
Certainly shone.
I was deceived,
By he who I thought
Was known.
Although it seemed,
This body has grown,
On me,
A victim of con I was,
And I had become
Longing, and alone.