What are we, but mere silhouettes of our past?
Beings, altered by the course of time,
Until we are but a new being.

For cells die and cells divide,
cells new again and again,
Can we truly say that we are the same person of yore?

New likes, new dislikes,
Taste and senses numbed by age,
What we once knew, foreign,
and what we once thought was, isn't.

How then can we love?
The person I loved yesterday, today isn't.
The person I am yesterday, today isn't.

Who are we? What are we?

Are we not mere doppelgangers of ourselves,
Hoping to be but never really.
Hoping to stay but moving constantly.

I yearn for the days of old,
the times familiar,
but merely hold on to a stopped watch.