I write this scrambled message
Not as the youthful brown eyed child
That started this. . . this. . . this. . .
(I don't even know what this is)
But as a broken back with limbs
As crooked as my being
Like the branches of the old knotty tree
The stuck together pieces of this version of me

You are leaving my thoughts
Running out like they did
But this heart, not heart
This mind won't let me stop
It will not let this through
But what is this?

The stories I've written down in blood
Are getting soaked in the rain and
That old punished vampire has gotten a drift
Of the scent of this blood soaked page and
He can't help but want to come out and
Drink it down to replenish the ink
From his withered and snapped feather pen
In one final attempt to write down this
Last scrambled message of a dying man. . .

"I'm through trying,
Please just understand
That this is not for you
This is the answer and
The question that
I have always asked
Has been replaced with this.

This is what I must do
I'm leaving to find it.

This is the end. . ."

But,
What is it?
&
Who are you?