He’d found himself suspended in a stasis;

Desires were his strings and he’d been pulled from

all ends–he was locked–he was a puppet–and to his own

hand at that and yet hardly was he its master.

 

His biggest complaint, was that he’d lacked identity–

or so he’d believed and so he says to this day–that

he owns to no identity; he could not manage to pigeonhole

himself and this’d bothered immensely, as he’d such a talent

for sizing up anyone–but himself–he’d not a clue where he’d fit;

 

Whether it was a triangle, a square, a circle, he was clueless;

There was only so many shapes, but suspended in his stasis,

watching the shapes fall beneath him, he could not figure it out.