He’d found himself suspended in a stasis.
Desires were his strings, and with these pulled from all ends
he became locked — he was a puppet — and to his own hand
at that and yet hardly was he its master.

His biggest complaint, in all of this was that he’d lacked identity.
Or so this is what he’d believed and what he says to this day,
that he owns to no identity.

He could not ever manage to pigeonhole himself —
and this’d bothered him immensely, as he’d grown such a talent
for sizing up anyone — but himself – he’d not a clue where he fit.

Whether he was a circle, a square, a triangle, he was clueless.
There was only so many shapes — but suspended in his stasis,
as he was, watching the shapes fall beneath him,
he could not figure it out.