I’m not as sure as I may seem. I’m nude under my clothes.
All my outer calm aplomb is just a studied pose.
Friends find me enigmatic. There is always something new
under this staid demeanor that’s the me that you can view.
I wield advice as though it is my rapier or sword.
Laughter is a weapon that belies the fact I’m bored.
Nothing records my progress. I’ve no lines upon my face.
For me time wields no marker. Passing years have left no trace.
My oldest friends have no more clue of who I may be
than my newest acquaintance. There is no knowing me.
I’m a perpetual puzzle locked up in a box.
I never shed this mask you see below my graying locks.