“Who’re you really” the Sage asked again,
that look upon his face

“It depends on who I’m looking at,”
I said, his eyes now glazed

“I’m never just one thing as you’ve heard often
in my songs

“Like the weather I am prone to change,
from right—to oft times wrong”

“But what of your essence” he asked again,
“the core of who you are”

“My essence a myth that plagues your mind,”
dimensionally scarred

“If your eyes were a laser with vision to burn,
you still would only see

“A mirage in the distance, wrapped in a mystery
—pretending to be me”

(Bryn Mawr Pennsylvania: April, 2020)