Who can I possibly be if I chameleon my way
Through conversations. So easy to slip back on
The mask there ere I wore
To even notice as it occurs and like a falling stone
Unable to stop or even slow the maddening descent.
I guess I’ll have to be content
With awareness as the consolation prize
At least for now until a better one can be conjured.
Still, like a comfortable old jacket that easily conforms
To my shape, I conform to the shape of the conversation.
The performer in me takes charge and, egged on, continues
Since I cannot resist the enticing drug of approval,
So tempting, so immediate, so irresistible.
So I accept the falling and the masks and the rewards
While the rest of me hides safely away; for now.
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