How will they ever know
Which one is the real me?
A season, I’m one.
Then, I’m another.
Then another again.
Seasons at least get the luck
Of repeating themselves
Four by four,
As if the Earth
Was doing box breathing
Just to try calm itself down.
The only cycle I loop through,
Is one of death and then of flames.
And despite that,
I never return to being me.
The myselves stuck in the limbo,
I cannot even recognize them.
Every month, one me dies.
Every death, peaceful or cruel,
A new clone emerges.
A new character, by a new author.
They accumulate experiences,
Fate of the empty vessel.
None other, than the next next in line.
