Who are we really?
Who are we
but those we idealize to be.
Our lover’s kisses
and our parent’s remembrances
are enough to present ourselves,
I daresay.
But who dwells within?
Is it our dreams and aspirations,
our thoughts and actions,
or the image we paint
with the stroke of a brush we were given?
Hephaestus would be proud,
for even though he sculptured us
we weaved the threads of destiny
and filled his empty shells with soul.
Soul
as Helena would cry out.
That mysterious, ever illuminating thing,
which I refuse to weigh down on some grams.
Though, even if I did,
each gram would contain the weight of the universe.
Enough to wrap reality itself.
This poem is part of a poetry collection of my own creation. For any reuse, please feel free to contact me. Nisolomou (Stelios Nikolaou) 2024 ©
