Can you see the blurred lines glidin’             where the trees and roads once divided?
                            The creek’s trickling              and blue birds sing,
                                          yet, their edges melt into one horizon.

Weaving roots come undone
                            and I’m left all alone                playing make-believe, and who is me
                                                 like jane doe, I’m on the run.

Can you see where the blurred lines run         where I drift and merge to be—
                            what we are made “to be”        while tomorrow waits
                                                                beyond the bend.

Or am I trapped staring at my identity               through the stained glass room, far above
                                mistaking reflection                for a boundary
                                                     far away from could be love.