I am that which cannot be broken
The untamed spirit
Of a wandering soul in a weary sack of bones
Floating endlessly through cycles of longing
And loss
I am that which cannot be tamed
The wilds of a forest
The passion of love
I am that which is blessed
With the curse of life
And of strife
I am that which cannot be explained
The random mutation
And spontaneous creation
I am both the poem and the poet
The rhyme and the time spent and made
I am not but a memory of a figment of a fraction of the sight
Of all you have seen in your life
I am that which I claim to be
I am that which you make of me
To myself I am nothing more than a tapestry
Worn down by time
Worn out by life
And still exuberant
The untold stories and unseen glories
I am that which cannot be broken
I am the will and the way
I am.