The Pictures of Self ...

What do you call the picture of self
My mind played my heart like a violin,
Time ticked by like an old clock’s hymn.
Standing at the edge of reason’s wall,
Where shadows rise and echoes call.

Questions dwell in unspent wells,
Is truth alive, or just the tales we tell?
As our age shapes grows and bends the arc of our frame,
We sketch and outline our self, yet never the same, at times defined while other abstracts
The picture of self oftentimes distracts.

What do you see when you gaze inside your mind, what holds the entirety of your heart in shaken grips girth.
A distant flicker or a star that died? What do you see when you look inside?
Does your quill pierce the foggy shroud, does it write in truth
Or is it lost in the crowding cloud?

Every action carves the soul,
Each stroke defining, yet never whole.
But who are we when the mirror lies,
When the smoke of others dims our skies?

Is your canvas real, or an abstract stain?
Do you wear your chains, or break the frame?
Does your rage hold you caged,
A prisoner of masks, a silent plea
To shatter the cage and set self free.

Society molds with hands unseen,
A puppeteer weaving the in-between.
They sell the self you never chose,
A fragile photograph, a fading pose.

Yet seeking truth is no weak refrain,
It’s the ship that sails through storms of pain.
For every lie the silence sows,
A spark of truth in the darkness grows.

Rationality falters; the heart endures,
Beyond the veil, where the soul matures.
So cast the map you think you know,
And sail where unlit waters flow.