Is it a wander that I don't feel anything but nothingness,
I wonder,
or am I
he who in his wonders, assumes everything above
and under?
Am I here
or here is only
a part of an unending assumptions and ponders?
And where does my past come from,
here and me
or others
over yonder?
Am I the only light
dancing on the candle and mime,
the one that on the pedestal of “now”
twirls and twists,
as if we are not the passenger of time,
as if past and future
do not exist?
Am I the only man in these shackles?
Is the world only the chains,
or am I a set of twin speckles
smudged
on the wings of butterflies and rain.
Am I the only a particle, an inset
assuming the whole statuette,
or am I the whole statuette
experiencing as a fracture yet
when the clay still is wet?
Am I us experiencing me?
Am I me
experiencing being you?
Am I you
in
my
shoe?
