The Mysterious Image

I wake up to another hectic day,

then look at myself and ask," who are you?"

Now I won't let my heart be lost astray;

someone from the dark watches me in hue.

There is a world outside painted in blue,

that remains bizarre yet always feels proud,

every soul on earth constitutes that crowd;

pouring wine under chandeliers in glee,

they rush through their lives complaining aloud;

oh dear not long ago that had been me.

They seem to be my forlorn history,

from a lost life in an old distant land,

a story that remains a mystery,

dull pages of a book buried in sand.

Ah! I recognize this image so tanned,

it no longer seems to haunt the darkness,

that's my image with a little starkness!

"You define yourself by who you have been,

I'm here to enthrall, you misunderstand,

time for you to create what you haven't seen."

Here comes the Dizain form. It is a French poem or stanza of ten lines, employing eight or ten syllables to the line and having a specific rhyming pattern, as ababbccdcd. I have used ten syllables per line.