Who Is My ' Not-I'
It’s a tough , tough call
Too..too many things to recall
A few sticking on as remembrance.
Too horrid or huge or humorous
A bundle of points ponderously fall,
While I try encrypting into my scrawl.
Hours , long to sleep away
So, I’ve got to wake up often in a day.
Being a windbag and sanctimonious at that
Is my singular respite
In oxygen- short peaks of silence.
Cicatrix of self is what I see as substance
Even as I am blind to wounds of life.
Who is to blame for my rot and strife?
Lack of hands to deliver
Or surfeit of hands seeking succor.
Bury me please atop my tedium
Or the Everest of encomiums
Still you can rile or rebuke me, as I stick out my head
Who am I..who am I
Question that is great, but it flatters
Who is the not-I , trickier, is what matters.
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