I leave behind me this string of past selves,
shed like old skin as I leave their moment.
They look like me but they are alien,
with the hand of the last on my shoulder.
A chain of forgotten identity.
These old clones strut behind me in lock-step,
a regiment marching to my heart beat.
Eyes forward, each ignores the one behind.
In single file, each believes itself alone,
But then night comes and we must close our eyes.
Haunted by the selves that went before me,
the tiny deaths that I live day to day.
They crowd around me, I can hear them breath.
They cry softly, I can't see through their dreams.
Dead shells rustling in the evening breeze,
old wishes bleeding through leaking seams.
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