I write this poem with my hand.
       If it be mine, this hand,
Then who is I that does possess it?
      And where can I be found?

As every other body part
       Belongs to me as well,
Then I from flesh am separate;
	I'm non-material.

My flesh is cloth draped round a ghost
	To make it visible,
While shrouding what can not be seen:
       The I, the me, the soul.

Aha!  But that is mine as well.
	Whose soul is that but mine?
Then who is I that owns that soul?
	Can I that I define?

I'm like a minnow in the stream
       That flashes and is gone,
Or wind that's hid within itself
       While sweeping through the town.

Comparisons come easily
       To hand - but not what's sought.
There is futility in words
       Makes poverty of thought.

How strange to be so close and far,
       And be so unaware.
I am the stranger in my midst
       And hardly know I'm there.

Perhaps I should give up the search
       And stow my vanity,
And be alert to what I may
       Communicate to me.
                                              
I may be lost and signalling
       Within the murk of me.
The more I prod and stir about
       The less is there to see.

Too eager, too inquisitive,
       Like those who ask and never
Stop to listen.  Questions rise
       So easily - they gather

In the head and simulate
       The real desire to know.
A very great one questioned once
       His god when here below.

His god who'd made him in his image
       And, by extension, me -
Gave answer: "I am that I am,"
       And no more added He.

Frank Dux