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 I’m 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?