He posits a question
I sit
I postulate
Morning suns are sparks on cinder
In my eyes
Evening suns are dying embers
In my eyes
The sun that lives over me
And the hidden face of the moon
That lives in me
And all manner of day and night
That becomes me
A living ghost
A dying host
A warrior
A coward
An old soul
A young man
He asks a simple question
But there is no simple answer