Conceptual Me

This aging graying piece of driftwood

Bobbing along the stream, at the mercy of the wind

Forever the dusky twilight mind

Alone in a crowd, this stone ranger stares back from the mirror

A lone drummer beats a foreign cadence

Sadly, this sponge dances like the deaf

And pines in his box, to which he holds the only key

Blind to the prism he is, that only others see

Forever buoyed by smiling sheep in friendly guises

If it weren't for the sheep 

I'd be my own stone ranger, says he

But to the sheep, that I be

At times the sponge casts the blanket off

Like Linus on a sunny day

Showing the cracks, come what may

But only when the moon is blue

If only the sponge had another hand

Or a working hand at all

Better yet a granted wish to be a little tall

But the sponge's world is an imperfect place 

And most days he struggles with the pace

So he returns dejected, to his box

And hardly

 moves at all