I switch from face to face,

unwilling to be put in place,

stretching over distant thoughts

of what I’ve found and forever lost.

People look at me and see

an inkling of infinity,

yet wrapped in turmoil,

uprooted from abundant soil.

Searching for my future,

I happen to break the culture

of whispers and verisimilitude,

clothed in material attitude.

I see them all on a shelf,

marionettes without a Self,

moving to the strings of being

and missing out on becoming.