Who

Breathing in the Earth,

The musk, the depth, the decay the life slowly passing away after a rain,

Feeling every cold little droplet,

Trickling down the sewers and drains,

Somewhere in the middle,

Of all this rhythm,

There's a pitter-patter of tears,

Of mirrors shattering,

A reflection searching,

For something, for anything,

A recognition of an identity lost,

The fall was long,

Dreadful, abysmal,

A dastardly attempt to save oneself,

From expectation, from responsibility,

From obedience...

Yet, it was harsh,

Until each feather was stripped away,

And whatever brilliance was burned,

To be further bared than the day of birth,

Vulnerable, visible, exposed,

And each nail clipped and fang dulled,

Til the only question left is:

"What's left?"

Each rib pried from bones,

See that heart, red, beating, bloodied,

It's still there, still struggling,

Yes, the surface of "who" is unclear,

Yet, under the answer is there, hidden under the layers of trauma and disappointment,

Screaming to be known