Poem: I am, I am…

I’m the philosopher toiling to find
the meaning of my discontent,
I’m the journalist writing, with blood,
to ink the tortures of my liberties,
I’m the poet drinking my own tears,
to sweat the poison of my shame
I’m the god burning the throne of ash I inherited—
I’m the man, the shepherd,
I’m the polyp, tentacled to the rectum of the world,
the mouth and the anus—
the navel and the coccyx of despair—
I’m the storm in the heart of the night,
I’m the rib in the golem of fire…
Am formless.

I’m the song of the wind, the language of the mute—
the fervent gestures of divinity,
I’m the midnight cry full of wars and wailing births,
I’m the labour, the stillborn
the midwife and the sexton.
I’m the polaroid of a pinhole camera
I’m the heart with no body;
the soul with no destination—
I’m the weapon forged to survive itself
I’m the sling without stone,
I’m the pause before the abyss—
I’m the question, how do I step into eternity?
—I am, I am…


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