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I am the ordinary honest man
He who none of us want to be
The regret in similar bones, skin and blood
The refusal to embrace the touch of our kin
The exaggeration of an experience
The twisting of a tale
Being different is an invention of a mind common and familiar
To you or I
As Kipling suggests
The striding of kings paves the everyman's path
Their hands a bejeweled map of country and kingdom
Eyes dense as opals
Betwixt hard and refined
But tender and warm

Forget not where you once longingly stared
Nor where your visions lead you