Cordon Poem by Andy Brookes

wondering how many versions are there, each though a carbon copy holding different keys to different tunes, major and minor

to others we appear in the guise they want, tailored to fit.
do they choose or do you?

never the same twice or thrice.

dancing in a masquerade ball, steps a complicated minuet, ever changing, sometimes in midstream thus getting feet wet.

mirrors are all we have and they lie, cannot see into the seething mass of fears, hopes and dreams which which survive landlocked within.
joys that never to skim or make waves across the vast ocean of imagination.

so we never really know who or what we are, or we do but choose
the line least resistance trying to be that which we can never be.

deformed by the box we can never fit.