A Question About Myself
Life bites like a vampire bat,
and changeling is my middle name.
The old blind man plays the blues,
shades of cerulean, sky, navy, and charcoal.
Proof is in the state of mind;
belief that death is paternal figure.
He whispers in my ear: always, always,
but it's a lie, because they always, always LEAVE.
The cross you bear is what I refuse.