The Grafted Soul

In shade, I ponder, my hands are stained,

A strange architect, of fractured remains,

Piecing together, a puzzle untamed,

A better me, or a monster to be blamed?

This darkened chamber, my sanctuary and bane,

Whispers and echoes, of past love and pain,

An eye, an ear, from friendships I’ve known,

But can I be human, built from parts I now own?

This patchwork self, creation unsure,

Borrowed traits and laughter, a deceptive cure,

Am I a creature, of blackened despair,

Or a reflection of the good I found there?

The storm rages on, as I stitch and mend,

My hands tremble, uncertain of the end,

In the company of others, do I find my grace,

Or am I destined to haunt, a forsaken place?

Hopes and dreams, collected in the night,

Can borrowed smiles, shed any light,

On this fractured being, an uncertain fate,

Am I a monster, or can I recreate?

With every piece, a question looms,

Amidst the darkness, do I dare to bloom?

Built from fragments, a mosaic of fear,

Yet seeking solace, in those I hold dear.

A better me, or a demon, unclear,

A reflection of love, in a hall of mirrors,

Assembled from shadows, longing to be,

A creature of hope, or a monster to flee.