Estranged

a poem about first moving to the city.

This is not my life
It is someone else's
I am only the shadow of the body,
dragging, lagging - and walking helpless
Which would explain why, every object-
street, tree, and person alive
seems cold and alien
Strange, to be subject to one's own existence
as a distant relative, dissociated
Just as the serpent sheds away a previous form of skin,
like him, my own has left me behind
now I run to chase the darkness of a sudden asymmetry,
lopsided, in feeble attempt to find
the comfort of a former home.