I always stood there as An unregarded painting, A flower growing between the tiles, A payslip long stripped of purpose, A character in a sitcom nobody thinks to applaud. Like perfume on forgotten letters, fading, but never gone. A background dancer at the corner whose twirls summoned the moonbow, forsaken at the end of the show. An aubade of the morning bird complaining about the folks. A forgotten signboard pointing to a barren land. Like the line of the classic they un-noted, A racer trembling on the starting line, A song of an unknown tongue where lyrics carried melancholy, Yet everyone danced cheerfully. As the tree jolted by footsteps, in lonely cries where inquietude lingers on its words, stammering to find aureate thoughts to hide from disdain. as a poem with no flow, pausing too much. I stood there with thinning passion, never basked in attention, as an unnatural existence, Still everyone remembers the time when I stood as a well-behaved child. So unintentionally awkward with a confused identity, renting to live in its own flesh and blood.