A Changeling

Each twist of word and phrase shifts perception;
angles the light shining on those reading
the poem.  They may not be able to
see changes in the pictures he creates
– yet they understand he plays by no rules.

Some other force drives him forward – not heart
nor head, perhaps dream or nightmare instead
(both spawned by memories in his past lives).
He takes the form – knight in tarnished armor,
sage of eons past, or Bacchus banal –
and plays his part well, hearing no judgments,
accepting no critique of word or deed.

This changeling exists in a life that is
neither good nor fair – it just simply is.

©Siobhan
May 7, 2009