Me with myself

How many of me live and die

everyday within myself

How many times they come and go.

I have lost count,

What do they tell me all the while,

these me-s that grow and fade.

I face myself in them,

much like a room with mirrors;

each reflecting a profile of mine.

Some dark, some bright,

some in shade and some incomplete.

They are all me, all of me.

I am their hope, and their despair too,

the reason for their birth

and the rationale for their death.

Its me that they search,

and I look around for them.

Whenver the emptyness of time,

or the fast pace of life takes over.

They are there, surely and certainly,

I feel them, within me , in parts, in pieces

the whole of me in a scattered array.

Nothingness without them,

or nostalgia in their embrace, whatever,

creeping sadness , deep melancholy,

feverish excitement, endless expectation.

All of these and much more,

make them rise and crumble again.

Sometimes as doubts, sometimes questions,

and yet sometimes as the direction.

Leading them to me as the final destination.