I look in the mirror, ask it a question:
Do you know what I am?
The sullen prophet stares back, bites:
I don't know what you are.
I'm floating through this woodland
Disorientated like it's a dream—no, it's
Real, it's real but with a filter that blurs;
I'm scared I'll trip over, fall and
Ruin everything like spilled black
Ink on a sheet of white paper:

Obnoxiously stark like a mess and it's
Stained forever, it won't go away, oh,
God. And I'll run and run away
From his voice in my head that says:
You're just like me, you know
It's an echo, echo, e c h o I hear
When I can't concentrate on anything.
(But I fall asleep. My mind stills.
I wake up and ask myself:
Who am I? The prophet still does
Not know. Is that enough?)