On the Precipice of March

On the edge and looking over.  There’s a new name for another of the same but slightly different.

Forward.

I’m reaching the crest where I start to mark time with gray hairs and lost teeth.

I forgot how to look forward, forgot how to be me.

I traded images and faces, names, morphed with color of hair and strategy of game.

Beware, Self is something much easier to lose than find again.

 

 

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