I am the stranger
walking through the out door
the moment you walk in;
a pigeon fluttering about
in the corner of your eye;
that lone cloud above
you never notice.

I am a piece from another puzzle
dropped into this box,
familiar yet strange,
not a part of the picture.

I am an overgrown side path,
leading from nowhere to nowhere;
tire marks on the beach
half washed away by the tide;
a rusty sign cursed with amnesia.

Moments try hopelessly
to string themselves together
like shuffled words that almost make a sentence.
Some profound truth perpetually rests
on the tip of my tongue,
never quite revealing itself.

Over and over, I cling tightly to the mirage
until it vanishes with the shifting light.

I want to see what is real,
but then again, sometimes
I want to be fooled.