The death of the self does not talk of decaying flesh nor shattered bones,

Sometimes I’m Lady Lazarus rising above these stones and a snake that has shedded its skin,

Sometimes I flipped through pages of books to live a sin and to live the life of another,

Under the Maple tree of fall I strum the strings that sings along the rhythm of birds,

And sometimes I’m a bird in this vast limitless sky,

Only my wings are of a smaller size.

I died a thousand deaths and still managed to crawl back to life,

The altering of illusions, the knowing of lies and the resurrection of self-

One can argue about the nature of men,

But nothing’s quite as certain as the beginning and the end,

What remains a bridge is what’s left for a man to amend,

Sometimes I am a poet,

A lover,

A criminal-

And yet with everything that I set my soul into,

I hope it’s possible to consistently love someone that’s constantly changing-

Leading roles-

A Catalyst, at most.