The Things I am

That thing, that changeling, is not me;

its hair; its face is a disguise;

it does not see things as I see;

it has no glow within those eyes

when it looks at blue summer skies

or feels warm sunbeams touch its skin;

the summer does not make it sigh;

it has an emptiness within.

Look how it simply ignores

the summer birds that sing and soar

while every note they sing shines bright

to me and makes my heart feel light.

Look how, upon flowers, it treads

its boots crushing their dainty heads

while, to me, each bloom is a jewel

and those who trample on them, fools.

My heart, you know; my soul, you know

you know how summer makes them glow;

how I’m thrilled by the flash of thunder;

how star filled skies fill me with wonder;

that birds and flowers mean hope to me;

make my heart sing and bloom with glee.

No, that thing’s not I; that thing’s a sham

for the things I love; they’re the things I am.