Five decades of pretending to be,
Scribbling figures and make-believe words
On discarded envelopes
Like Rodin with his crayons,
Composing poems, sketching
In the dark creases of my room,
My sanctuary away from everyday;
The writing of the stories of the skull,
As a way of mapping out
The unclaimed fringes of imagination.
Five decades of a double life,
The outwardly acceptable niche
Of salary and possessions;
The inwardly cloaked realm
Of pretending to be.
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