I write this poem with my hand. If it be mine, this hand, Then who is I that does possess it? And where can I be found? As every other body part Belongs to me as well, Then I from flesh am separate; I'm non-material. My flesh is cloth draped round a ghost To make it visible, While shrouding what can not be seen: The I, the me, the soul. Aha! But that is mine as well. Whose soul is that but mine? Then who is I that owns that soul? Can I that I define? I'm like a minnow in the stream That flashes and is gone, Or wind that's hid within itself While sweeping through the town. Comparisons come easily To hand - but not what's sought. There is futility in words Makes poverty of thought. How strange to be so close and far, And be so unaware. I am the stranger in my midst And hardly know I'm there. Perhaps I should give up the search And stow my vanity, And be alert to what I may Communicate to me. I may be lost and signalling Within the murk of me. The more I prod and stir about The less is there to see. Too eager, too inquisitive, Like those who ask and never Stop to listen. Questions rise So easily - they gather In the head and simulate The real desire to know. A very great one questioned once His god when here below. His god who'd made him in his image And, by extension, me - Gave answer: "I am that I am," And no more added He. Frank Dux