Shape, a poem

Shape

I really don’t exist,
I’m merely an illusion
I imagined once,
a moment of confusion.

Each forgotten face
is held up for inspection;
every mirror holds
its own fun-house reflection.

I looked into a room
with my name on the door,
but found that it was empty — 
who was there before?

Memories of morning
mist obscure tomorrow,
whisper who I’ll be,
illusions I might borrow.

Am I just the shape
I saw once in a cloud?
The wind took but a moment
to wrap me in its shroud.

Stephen Brooke ©2026