A glance through riffled papers seeking other views of self,
A word, a phrase, an insight, a pearl of truth the wealth
For which I search in vain, for who is "I"? Which one?
The bitch, the young flame, brain on legs, a home when day is done?
Where can I find the essence, buried deep, the spot unmarked;
The heart and soul of darkness blinding light, the vital spark?
Am I the sum of all my past? Am I born fresh each day?
Are we connected networked isolation? Do we fray?
Within the web of darkness woven lightstreams wrought with pain
Of love and love of pain within, without, below, above. Again,
We ask the unasked question, seek to query what we know,
Or think we know, or know we think, but is it ever so?
Can there be answers? If there can, can searching seek them out?
Or is the stir of asking all the answer to our doubt?
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