I have no real face…
just a picture of solitude
worn into the fabric of time
my smile, forlorn
accepting misgivings
resigned to waiting in line.
I have no real heart…
just a space where love should be
stolen by those that were near
my pulse, still beating
pounding regardless
till moments become those lost years.
I have no real life…
though somehow live on each day
waiting, just waiting in line
I wonder what if?
then remember just who I am
a poet writing his life, in rhyme.