When one leaves home they are themselves,
For nothing stands to alter them.
Their routine life shows someone else-
A false appearance they pretend.
But does conformance, day to day,
Definine our minds and shape our souls,
Or is it when we step away,
That we assume our own true roles?
We're, all of us, chamelions,
Who let the darkness pale our skins,
Then change our shading in the sun.
Are such disguises worn within?
Which life is real, which one untrue?
Does truth discern between the two?
