Post the Fifty-First or Ephemera

I saw someone on the train today

But they didn’t meet me

The years

And Red Lipstick

Concealing who I once was

How I once walked through the world

I wonder if I am the same person that I was then

I remember his memories

And experiences

His hurts

And dreams

I remember being Him

But does that constitute sameness?

Perhaps I am like stones on a shore

The constant beat of the surf

Wearing away all those layers

All those Conceits

Wearing me smooth

Like a silk summer dress

Perhaps I am

The wall of an abandoned warehouse

Being tagged, retagged

Again and again

Painted over by murals

That vividly announced the difficulty

Of living brown and poor

Constantly shifting

Constantly changing

And yet

A stone is still a stone

And a wall is still a wall

Perhaps, then, I am a poem

Full of meaning and nonsense

A living, breathing


Born of joy and sorrow

That, when read, is immortalized

Held in the reader’s soul



With a few strokes of a key

Lost, like so much ephemera

A passing fad that fades

Before it is even remembered.

About witchymorgan

I'm a 22 year old womanist, sex positive, pansexual, polyamorous, queer, bruja, transwoman. Social justice activist by day, social justice activist by night. Fun! View all posts by witchymorgan

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