It intrigues me to still not know what I really am. From the existential question I have shifted to the perennial question From who I am I have shifted to what am I? What makes up this little body and enormous believes? This thin skin and thicker kins? This cold touch and the wild June nights? This walking wardrobe and nothing to Cover from the cold. This open book and stories untold This all ears deception to words not heard. This visionary loss that puts the blame on darkness. The time goes back in time to ask the rhetorical question. As to what? Really what am I?