In owldom, fliers adored me because underneath my cover, the scurriers could not hide.
In mousedom, whiskers considered both my presence and worth no better than feculence.
Now that I have been separated from a reason and tied to self’s singularity, I have no way to know whether or not I am a shadow or a reflection.
Without a compliment or a condemnation, do my florettes merit either gasconade or ridicule?
Will I prevaricate regarding identity truths if I have no one from whom to receive feedback?
Then, bloomed the realization that I was never forming myself from external inputs; I was choosing to prefer the ones I already wanted to win.
Still, between each sunrise and each sunset, I now try to let each and every placed purpose pass—for both my growth and my survival depend on defining myself—by myself—for myself—as splendidly limned of both light and dark. : )