Who’s the wrinkly old twat?
Hair limp and flat, hanging lifeless like an old hat
I wonder what his story might be? Did he ever live? Was he ever free to just be?
Or was he just a projection of what he was supposed to be?
Are the lines the marks of a life? Or scars?
The stripes of a tiger, or the shadows of his cage’s bars?
Who are you? Where have you been? What have you seen?
Are you the lines which are written? Or what’s hinted at inbetween?
An image of my future, or a spectre of what’s gone before?
Features shaped by living, like erosion shapes the shore
I’d like to think I’m watching people through the window as they pass
But the sad truth is, I didn’t recognise my own reflection in the glass