Why Am I?



Why am I

Always circling in great languid arches

Hungering far above some compelling nourishment I can never quite make out

Only smell, at the edges of my emptiness?


Why do I

Set myself to carving the relief that I would have to be my life

When all Im really doing is busying my hands

With things I have a sense I can control

Until the chisel slips again?


Why must I?

And on again...


Why do they

Draw you in and closer still

Letting you believe that they will never leave

And all is safe

Until the very moment that they do

And all is done some as though it never was?


Why dare I

Dream again of passion without harness, saddle, bridle, bit

Charging through the fields of truth

And stopping only at the very breast of mother earth herself

To take refreshment?


What fool am I

So foolish boy with foolish dreams and foolish ways

Tussling on but leading nowhere

Spilling out into the morrow, all arms and legs a-topsy-turvy?


When do I

Reach the end of all of this

In this life or the next?



Writer's Nook

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