Quiet Alleys of the Self

This week, our inspirational wellspring is the poem “First Impressions” by our Poet of the Week, Suzanne Brace. Let her unique experience of discovery through the uncharted waters of opera guide your muse. Her virgin ears to opera have opened a realm of raw and unfiltered emotion, casting a new light on the unacquainted. So, my fellow wordsmiths, let’s embark on this lyrical quest. Sharpen your quills, unfurl your scrolls, and let the essence of ‘Stranger’ flow through your free verse. We are the cartographers of this unexplored territory, drawing maps with our words to guide the hearts of those who dare to follow. So? “Do you Dare?”

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In the Quiet Alleys of the Self

I’ve walked these streets a thousand times,
beneath the neon glow and sighing signs,
Yet tonight, they whisper tales of ‘stranger’ lands,
where shadows stretch with beckoning hands.

The stranger in the mirror, the alley’s end,
where familiar contours twist and bend,
Stranger thoughts, like unturned stones,
nestled deep in marrow, etched in bones.

This city of self, once mapped by certainty,
now a labyrinth of the uncharted me,
With each step, the known path blurs,
as stranger winds of change quietly stir.

Echoes of the stranger I was yesterday
murmur in the breeze, then fade away,
Each moment, a chameleon’s scale,
shifting hues behind a gossamer veil.

The heart, a harbor of silent ships,
on stranger tides, begins to slip,
And I, the captain of this quiet odyssey,
set sail on seas of inner cosmogony.

Stranger still, this reflection’s gaze,
through the fog of the mind’s own maze,
I meet myself in the crowded square,
and recognize the stranger standing there.

In stranger’s guise, I’ve come to see,
the countless strangers inside of me,
Each a verse in an unfinished song,
a dance of who I’ve been all along.

For in the folds of introspective nights,
I find my fears, my flights, my fights,
Every stranger’s face that I’ve worn,
from the moment that I was born.

So here’s to the stranger, both foe and friend,
an enigma that time alone can’t mend,
For in the end, it’s the stranger’s role,
to reveal the truth of the hidden soul.

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In response to W3 Poetry Prompt #100: Wea’ve Written Weekly, which goes live on Wednesdays at The Skeptic’s Kaddish.

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Celestial @celestialkreationz