Liberation

What is it like?
To not know yourself?
At each footstep you turn,
“Who’s there?”, the question burns.

A little down the way,
seeing things that aren’t there.
Trying not to return
all the stinging stares.

Ambiguous flashes of a life
Whose are they?
Are they even your own?
Thoughts perish at birth

A world so lonesome.
Being there is tiresome.
Liberated from this burden.
Another world, tainted as heaven.