But more often than not, who I am falls short of what I’ve missed out on
Parallel selves slip by with their heads tucked away and down
Scornful of the man they could have been
Loosely fitting and scarcely adhered , a shell of a fraction
Dodging bullets
Unaware of how often they cross my mind
Diligently clinging to shadows
Scurrying like insects between pillars of light
Gazed upon with the awe and wonder of a dreamer child
Evaporating with each lost grain of sand
One by one, falling by the wayside
Commenting on how The Great Hunter looks more like an hourglass
Rendered miniscule under his guise and grandeur
Reassured by the emptiness that is his stomach
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