Am I an odd caricature
On the thin walls of existence
A sticky blob that wallows
In the mundane earth of ignorance.
Am I a lone anomaly
That lives inside the margin
When do I string up with words on the page?

Am I the ugly scab that forbids healing
On the wounded flesh of Nature.
Am I a forlorn leaf
On the sun-lit rivulets of hope that ebbs

As the selfless sun bleeds
For the dawn of moon’s charade
Am I the defiant weed dangling
On the dark silhouette of Nature

Am I the receding hair
On the retiring scalp of Nature