In the words of the actor that lives my life

"The true me, that isn't me, is walking strife"

My voice is miniscule

In a world of puffed chests and rabid children.

His voice is cool

Changing the world into a silk pavilion.

They ask him, "What is it that makes your mood so bright?"

He says, "A combination of howling on the moon and singing to the night"

The truth always festers in his lies

a nick in the silver tongue

I bear myself to the skies

I cling to a the night once sung

Some will say that I and he remain as separate entities

He and I are one

Two pieces of an ancient tablet that could never quite be

Decimated in the rays of lost suns

When in a world of sharp sticks and jaged stones

I am with myself and my actor utterly alone

Though I will never be lonely