what am I?
but that which is made
of parts, and parts,
and parts,
which even in a whole
cannot define for itself
the space it occupies,
nor purpose therein.
assembled as
may be the plans,
which laid down the
architecture of my soul,
I could not scale the walls,
but only dream of floors
and the vague idea
of ceilings.
structure of wit, and
senseless being,
of lofty thoughts and
unmet ideals.
the foundation
did crumble upon itself
and somehow
sustain throughout wreckage,
the silhouette of home,
undefined and wavering,
through flood and
assaulting winds.
iamwhatshewrote 