Who is the me

Rattling against the triteness

Of borrowed words and identities

Yearning to be formed

With words true and sure

 

How many words 

Need to be penned into thrash

Peeled and delayered

Such that me me me

May emerge

 

What is in the who

Waiting to unfold and form

Gifting the fabric of eternity

With a luminosity

That it only can gift