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.