so lost in knowing who I am
that I never discovered who I could be

could I be a sorted mess?
could I be a simple obscurity?

The potential is wasted on what there is
A mess and an obscurity.

The simple sorting of which lies in the future
The silent cry of which lies in the illusion
The spooky eyes of which smile back
The simmering steam of which dries black

The ignorance turns inwards
and now becomes then
soon enough.

It feels like searching for the same place
and finding something new each time but not it
The whole makes the part
or part makes the whole
But if the part has all changed
not the whole
does the part still make the whole?

Answers defy as questions arise
A lie to comfort the curiosity
Or a cat eating its own tail, am I?

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