What is it that I am
But a cloth hung up to dry
In the spring breeze
Quickly, hopefully, before it rains.
And when it rains, I am forgotten,
Drenched again from head to toe,
And all in white, so vulnerable.
My heartbeat slows.
My tears begin
but unnoticed in this torrential wind.
I am a sheet that plays the ghost,
That covers the couch,
That showers the host.
I am the beginning of this new life bulging,
I am the end of this crippled body dying.
I am everything which makes me nothing.
And I am nothing which makes me everything.
I am old, I am young.
I am here, and nowhere.
I have only just begun