Do I know any better who I am? Or only
Feigning just to arm myself against
Time's accusations; after all
I have promises to keep: move out
Of my anxious home and forgive all
My peripheral wrongs-wrong for my years.
I'll tell the truth for once, leave enough
Unsaid and tear up all warrants.

I thought eventually nothing will be left
At the edges of the light and I'll be transparent in
Dark labyrinths. There'll be neither
Wrong nor right, nor dissenting noises.

Now all these bear revisions, for I found
An unretrieved claim in a well of
Bitter tears: A new warrant.
I don't remember anything I confessed. Yes,
I don't know any better who I am. I came
To deign innocence-a longing
In vain. All seems to be lost on me; even
The despair is no longer my own.

T. Byram Karasu, MD is the author of Rags of My Soul