Matryoshka
A Postmodern Moment of Honesty
I am a nesting doll with seven or eight,
Somewhere inside me living, separate selves,
Together who are somehow me. I hate
To say it, but I do not know, if one delves
Too deep what they would find, or which is me,
The surface, or the he which dwells within.
The shell outside is bigger, louder, free
At least itself is its own limit, but then
I know I can put on a mask at any time,
Would that then be the ninth? I make each face
I show the world designed to face it. I’m
Aware I’ll never catch myself. I chase
From deep within, this ever growing shell.
Who’s in control? I can no longer tell.
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