I am waiting for the answer to a question I don’t know to ask.
I am waiting for the answer to a question I can’t see.
There is something deep inside me that just has to be released.
I am growing into someone I don’t know or care to know.
I am wondering at the person that I see.
Is the me I am really me?
Show me, someone, who I was and who I will soon learn to be.
Show me, someone, how I got here and to fill this hungry need.
Please and call me, if you know me.
If you know who I have been?
Something tells me that this someone who I am ain’t really me.
I am watching my reflection as it changes, grows estranged,
And my body, it’s connected, but I feel that it’s infected.
And the heart-pulse that is beating, it is weighed down by the grief.
A grief I don’t know. I can’t express it—and where it comes from I can’t go.
Who am I? And where did I fly from?
If I had wings instead of webs where did I fly from?
If you could tell me, whispering, let me burst through this cocoon of me.
As if I were trapped inside my own body.
Where did I fly from? Oh, from where did I come? Why did this death come?
And who am I? And who are you? And why are we
Asking questions we don’t know how to ask. . .