Who am I?

Who Am I?

Who am I?

Am I the words on this page?

Or a soft whisper in your ear?

Am I here?

With you now?

Or there?

Alone?

or not?

Am I the Author

or a Journalist?

A Chronicler

of Life lived inside

the eye of a hurricane?

Do I Live to Write

or do I write

because I have to?

A caveman painting on the wall

in your brain.

Why?

Because I have to.

“…Full of Sound and Fury…

Signifying Nothing…”

It is I, I, I…

A Fallen Angel

Far from Heaven.

Degenerate Saint.

A Knight of the Road

in stolen armor.

Joyous, blissful Sinner.

Pervert Priest of Pranksters.

The boy your parents warned you about?

The serpent in the Garden?

Or

A medium

for the Lost Souls

with unfinished business

And tales to be told;

striving to remember

what I already know,

Long forgotten

Adventures, Majic and Mischief

to be lived again

And again

And again,

Yet simultaneously

In the Here and Now.

A mysterious hand cupping

your breasts

or buttocks.

A pair of ears,

a pair of cheeks

between your thighs.

Is that a tongue

or The Serpent

that slithers and lingers

at the entrance to the Temple of the Holy of Holies?

It is I.

I am always with you.

I have always been here

all along.

It is I.

because I have to.

Shipwrecked survivor

stranded on

The Island of Lost Souls.

My poem is a note in a bottle

cast into the sea of humanity.

Awaiting reply.

It is I

Because I have to.