Walking on fresh snow
feeling the crispness of originality,
treading where no other footsteps will go.
Man's fatality
is that they'll never know
their true face, their true personality.
Snow only disguises prior steps spent.
Your truth is black ice,
a life never meant,
a clear but dangerous vice.
You will rue the repetitive route went
for "same" will not suffice.
I now want the sun
to melt away all my previous tracks
as if each footstep a new life begun,
forgetting past acts,
uniqueness undone
as my truth self I can relax.
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