Writhing, twisting,
contorted and pretzeled
accordioned into my
pigeonhole.
Once upon a time I was a man -
now I'm a hollow shell,
a quiet memory of
"what's-his-name" and
"who's his face" -
I changed to try and find myself
but lost my identity.
I fit the mold
(my pigeonhole)
because, in the end,
I'm not present -
only remembered.
© 2006 Braeden Jones