Moving

There is a man outside shedding his skin on the street,
Because no one has told him his life's on repeat.
Society tells him he likes it that way,
Sketched black and white, void of gray.
Another step forward, another layer left behind,
Long ago accepted that life doesn't give signs.
No mirror in sight ─ he wouldn't know the reflection.
No sun on the horizon to show some sense of direction.
He picks up a stone and throws it into the night,
Shattering the sky and still not finding light.
Screams for help, for mercy, for feeling.
His face is melting from pressure, peeling.
I don't know how, but
He looks just like me now.