Are we truly unique, or mere echoes,

Carrying fragments of those we’ve met,

Lives entangled like threads in a woven glow,

Patterns stitched from moments we can’t forget.

Are we each a flame, a single spark alight,

Or shadows cast from those who came before,

Reflections in a window, flickering bright,

Pieces of the past we can’t ignore.

In the eyes of a friend, do we see our own?

In the touch of a lover, are we reborn?

Are we the sum of those we’ve ever known,

A mosaic of lives, each one worn?

The laughter of a sibling, the sigh of a mother,

Whispers of mentors, the cry of a friend,

All dance in our veins, like no other—

Woven into us, from start to end.

Perhaps we’re not singular, but rather a blend,

Of everyone we’ve touched, and who’s touched us too,

A reflection of those who’ve crossed our path,

Becoming their stories, just as they do.

So, are we unique? Or a patchwork divine,

A masterpiece made of faces and time?

Perhaps the answer’s both, entwined—

For we are ourselves, yet theirs, in kind.