When I am alone
I think,
Too much?
No, too little,
I’m afraid,
No long length of thinking
Can ever come around full circle
There’s always something,
Missing...
A puzzle not quite fitting
And I wonder what my thoughts are
Or if these are my thoughts at all
Who am I?
Am I a soul, a body, a product?
Generic, unoriginal, vapid, useless,
Anything I chose to be?
Is it possible,
In this dying world,
That I could be something alive?