A bird, a tree, a rock; they know what they are for, what freedom is

Simplicity of it pierces through me breaking my heart for I can’t reach that state of knowing

Human…

I am misplaced, shapeshifted here and there, but nowhere I know what I am for

I do it all and do it well, as there’s nothing else to be done, yet there is always a bodily grumble, a jerk and a sting in the tongue, as joy is lost and never there

What am I for? I do not know

In constant searching I tire desiring for extinction, yet if not searching then what?

Grabbing onto something, anything, somewhere, but nothing stays, as it should or should it not be that way?

Is being misplaced a ‘what for’ in itself?

The non-human calls me, as it knows what is what, it had always known and for that I love it so

Thrown into this life one more time I swam and walked straight off with confidence, but devoid of knowing what am I for?

Was I for something, but no more? Seem to have had and lost too early, known too soon, aged ahead of time. Is that it? Neither a witch nor a monk, but both

I seem to know a lot of parts

A bit of everything, but no one thing and I want to be one thing

Past love returns through dreams to remind me of the loss and the feeling that burns with such purity and light

It hurts, but the pain is sweet, the pain is deadly, yet alive. Is love what I was for, but no longer?

I drop it all now and again, empty out the way for something to take shape, to become once more

It comes, it stays, and it fuels, but not for long before the craving rises up again for

What am I for?

Now and again I grab hold of the golden thread and cherish it for a time

Before it slips out of my hand once again to become something or anything, but not mine

Am I a shapeshifting entity adapting to what is? Is that enough? Is that worthy of staying, being?

Perhaps it’s always been with nothing solid or constant needed

Perhaps the flow is where it’s at, for I speak of the flow often

Why does the yearning not stop and bitterness grows at times?

Why the peace alludes me and tears always stand on ready

Perhaps, it is a part of a crying body, dark texture of a human that also wants to be

And I am a carrier of its skin and depth

Perhaps, that is just so and what if that is not me, or one or constant

Perhaps, I am the ever-changing sketch of all things life, all voices of the unknown

In times of tiredness I crave the knowledge of the way of trees, rocks and birds

It comes over and over, but a shapeshifter needs rest, space, and formlessness

Hence emptiness is a necessary part of life too

What am I for? A lifetime spent asking questions is a life worth having

Perhaps…

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