For a frail & a lie is the flesh,
The truth lives in the bones,

But what makes a rose rose,
Not only the vibrant petals,
But all the leaves & spines,
As chaotic sea of thoughts,
Good & bad, wrong & right,
Strong & weak, dark & bright,
Tangled into one; into me,
The who I will come to be,

Wondering or loving,
Missing or fraying,
To leave is to grow,
Give in to the draw,

Have I a book for a friend,
Who has pages for a brain,
That endures all my notions,
& nurtures them with devotion,

Had I a pen for a friend,
Who had an ink for a blood,
That bled out until the end,
To let me out of my head,

Not one to tell what he is,
He is but untamed,
Inflamed, disoriented & raged,
Burning in emotional turmoil,
And stuck in reflection of a dream,
The He,

Like a buoy that caught up in a tide,
Inside a world full of storm ride,
Unstable,
Yet, calm as the eye of the storm,
Bright,
Yet, blind to the wind in the storm,
The She,