Identity is naught but illusion.

It is fragile and fluid and fleeting.

It encompasses a heart’s brief beating,

And vastly differs among everyone.


Identity is seen in name and face,

Though what does name entail but lineage?

And appearance serves only as the bridge

Of father to son and preserving race.


Identity is far more curious,

For a person is worth more than her birth;

I am the sum of my years lived on earth:

My sorrows and success: victorious.


I am from Italia, the homeland.

I’m from the scarlet polyurethane

And sand flying, turning to mud in rain.

I am awe and wonder from canyons Grand.


I am from the moon, galaxies, and stars,

And smoldering embers brought back to light.

I am from Endless Days and Fleeting Nights

That heal each burn into a fading scar.


I am from the hours lost to friendly smiles,

And the sleep lost to butterflies and black.

I am from the gold of a vict’ry plaque

Reflecting empty roads that run for miles.


I am more than what I appear to be:

I am a contradiction undeterred.

I am a song sung in the angels’ words

That speaks of my soul: my identity.

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