The Fret, The Hurry, The Stir | Poem

What it means to become a someone 
In a place where there sits nothing 
I may never know

What it means to be called something
In a world where names mean nothing
I may never hold
That answer, no

Like the endings of a barren page
Sitting worn as if they’ve been read a thousand times
I start to fade

They’re flowing out from edge to end
Those liquid words I’ve capped within
They start to fade

“Another image stirs in the mist”
Before the halls of time
It stands remiss 

The answer to the question of form
Lies, naked, bare and borne 
Solely for this

Here I am, an artifice
Of wisdom
And the intellect
I’d hope to meet
Of the belonging
I’d hope to seat

Here I am, a flesh-made shell
A husk 
That’s spilling fear
Just let me be
Let me be made clean

And it shifts and morphs
Amongst the other nameless amalgams

Forming and unforming
In the endless expanse
Forming and unforming
In the measureless expanse

The collection of concepts that make up what I call “you” and what you call “me”
Are as fragile as our ideas
Of what constitutes eternity

If we could hold time in a capped jar
Would we ever dare to open that jar?

If you were asked to give up all that you know,
To become a vegetable, numb, slow
To give the image of your life, it’s perceivable form, to another, only being told by one far wiser than you, “it’s for the best”

How would you justify saying, “no”?
Or
How would you respond if you’d time to speak before you go?