Am I still Here?
 

Am I still here?

This idea of presence and form eludes me
Like a soaring bird would avoid the fall
And it increasingly seems to concern me
That I may not exist here at all

I splay out the photographs on the bedroom floor
Just to know that I am still inside the colored squares
A sea of dejected Polaroid in collage form
My only proof of existence in this world…

The mind conjures up a meaning of self and form
But the mind is liable to misplace things of importance
Like my own sense of consciousness
As I am sure it will do to me…

Dreamscapes are actuality and actuality is a delusion
I wake and grasp for what I know is real, only to wake again
A constant shift of reality in an unstable realm
So memory eludes me like the plague…

I want to be solid in my presence like carved stone
But I am water, and I slide through the cracks of my soul
Spilling out and over in every which direction
I cannot retain any of myself…

So I pull out the weathered box full of photographs
And I pour them over the polished wood of my floor
I trace each smiling face with the tips of my fingers
To make sure I am still in them…

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