Who is to be me?

Not the fear that absorbs me
but the urge to fully absorb it
to be, just finally,
bright me.

And being me
is being the wind,
of all the unsolved mysteries
that define me and cursed me
in to being this soul that will hold
any and all the unsacred feelings
that it feels till it dies slowly or suddenly.

To be killed or feeling to kill,
or even to be killed by my own feelings,
it's for I to choose.

Life is a certainty of forgiveness
for time is a memory of bewilderness
and of consciousness that believes.

Can't call home
but I am home if
such feeling can behold.

Be away and here,
find the time to your peers.

Cross the road
and be untold by the other
but by just your own self.

Die young.
(even and mostly if old)