I am not you, nor you. I hate this sponge-clothing, oil-soaked, what you say, “human skin”. I do not feast upon the desires of man, I do not feel greed nor anger. No turmoil, no anguish. No, what I am
Is the black sands, what I am is the space. Your mind, that, I am. You sense me, without knowing. I’m a theory, they’ve yet to have known. In the back of your books. The pages that these tiny morsels of life have yet to discover! Given to them, and still they cherish only the mounds of gold they pocket under their gluttonous beaks, guarding and killing off the weaken.
No, what I am,
Is the second chance, the change of the wind, the hope, the life given to the ones who sat and listened.
Yes, what I am,
Is what wakes you up in the morning, what gives you life, I am your breath, let me breathe the cold air into your dying lungs! Sing and gather those amongst you who have always listened.
Sit now…on this stable, balanced rock; this Earth, in this time, and listen…
And that, my darling,
That is what I am.