Wherefore art I?
To the ends of any
I cannot partake the travel.
A chance for being,
a chance of action...
denied I suffer the blindness,
of a forced stoic solipsism.
Passion rages in the depth of my being;
involvement, just an instance
tis all I seek, and yet...
is really it a thing so valued...
so valued that mine would,
of yours diminish?
How can a world so full of greed and lust
so readily deny a free gift?
Am I not worthy to share
in the momentous dissemination?
Why is none willing to obtain from me?
Am I not trusted?
In what way have I wronged?
I know my voice, the sound,
it not is like the divine grace of a dove.
Does it grate the very soul to pain to hear?
Do I repulse such that even in a world
so full of greed, none will accept my hand?
Even the lepers shy away, as if my touch,
the sound I issue, carries upon it
the very being of death.
I have been and am,
without purpose, without necessity.
The need to be one with which
involvement is welcome has,
at this juncture,
overwhelmed and I fear
that the only place for me
is in nihilistic coma.