My twin isn't what he seems, we linger
between each other shadows of a silhouette
not always seen, impressions are everything.
But we wonder the realms of possibilities,
he is a night owl, me I'm a cockerel rising
with head held high at the yearning sun.
He wonders the untold stories of a slumbering
visage that others never see. Finding meaning in
the collection of echoes reverberating in footsteps.
We are opposites yet we are a collage of repetitions,
our speculations are façades of the other, silken thoughts
collect the subconscious dew of another's refection.
We have never purposely done wrong, survival is
a trait we have honed. The streets were a kinder-garden
of restless sleeps and haunting dreams.
But when on appearance, when finger caught in the
cookie jar, a reflection of remorse can set you free.
or the fact our finger prints duplicate reversals.
We survived through the trials of life, I became the
other side of me, I was a writer, I was a musician.
We thrived of each others impressions.
We do let the other have extended times, but the
plus side is we each only age when on the outside.
I look at myself and we both have lingering smiles.