Primitive Man

 

It is in the mirror that we see ourselves

Our hair,

Our lips,

Our eyes.

 

We study this image,

This is what we are,

From what our parents have given to us.

 

Who is from who?

My mother, my father?

But then does that not then recede far down the family tree?

Who was the original me?

How does he stand,

The Neanderthal?

 

If we then stood face to face,

Would he pick at my receded brow,

And be bewildered by my expression?

 

But could I be surprised,

By his actions?

As he is Freud’s id,

Rousseau’s savage man,

Can he not care as I do?

We may have evolved,

But are our emotions not the same?

 

He feels fear, the same as me,

He is curious, and angry

The same as me.

 

But can he be

Just as I am,

In the way he fights laughter

And bottles pain?

How would this Neanderthal act

If he saw a tender act,

Would he stand there confused,

Or smile, and feel the same?

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