What is that elusive I,

That self that so easily slips away

From all scrutiny?

What is that soul,

That powerful thing humming 

With every throb of my pulse,

Every rush of oxygen that seeps 

Into my lungs?

I refer to it so casually,

That mystery,

Like it is no less apparent than the sun,

No more hidden than a wine stain on pure carpet,

And yet when the day fades

And the quiet oppression of night descends

I shout into the shadows

What manner of creature am I?

Anguished by my lack of an answer,

Tortured by thoughts running through my head,

I suffer in silence, into the still, stifling, saddened night.

I am no more myself than myself is me,

A puppet on fraying 

Strings.