Writ upon the brow of lonely men

In times and tribulations writ upon the brow of lonely men, what say the children of humanity?  Do they see innocence and suffering, or do they only see another beggar on the street?

And if I try to be someone else?  Dare I be a stranger to some and a familiar to others?  Or a stranger to all?

What comes beckons from yesterday.  No todays sound in its voice, and fear alone sings its lamentable chorus from empty promises woven from tomorrows.

Do I beg for the rest of my life?  What I wait for is the more I seek.  Can you give it to me?  Or would you deny me?

This is who I really am.  Inside skin wrapped taught over the limits of infinity, within packages made of hopeless promise and desperate satisfaction, what breaks me can neither be told nor hidden.  And would you refuse me such a thing?

Or anyone else?

Suffering in a broken lineage of discovery wrought of searches both endless and finite, dare I mention the me revealed is not the me shown?

This is who I really am.  Would you reject me thus or embrace me as one would a brother?

What life has been displayed now seems a trite fakery, an imitation of what was, is, and will be, but what has so far been denied.

Perhaps in fear.  Perhaps in desperation.  Perhaps in longing for conformity and belonging.

It matters not.

In minutes near and far I see unfilled and unfulfilled promises as the lies they are.  This is not for me.  Not now.  Not any more.

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