In searching I have circled back, some ribbon turned into itself, lost inside a chamber of nothing; the layers and fabric thread red, bleeding the rainbow of colors twisted in perfection, and then spun down into an invisible white of naught.

I am but reflection, brought on by the sunlight that feeds illusion, stood upright in the eternal darkness, amongst the shadow speakers with the absence of ray, interwoven in solidarity into the corridors of nowhere.

I am but the eyes, ears, mouth, and skin revved up in latitude and longitude, the fingers finding me in the stillness, and measuring my righteous substance.

I am liquid amber dripping through the hands of no one—from him whom also stands in the shadows of no place and no being.

What am I least the tethered and labored music to the masses, the scent of the familiar last touched?

I am witness to the sum of my ever-varying parts, the intricate detection of bystander, the wanderers’ stopping point, however brief or meandering.

And though I exist, this ebb and flow made of conclusions and withdraws, of mediocrity placed upward or down in measure, I only exist of what illusion bends and claims real, a lost swimmer forgotten down the tunnel of not knowing what is and not comprehending the vessel that breathes.

And what of this air?

Does he too stand in the shadows mesmerized by his own selfless self; and in so doing suffer the want of recognition?

Am I but a thumbprint upon the eternal quilt of timeless time? Or rather the print inside the print; the molecular structure’s birthing house brought asunder, turned out, and opened for examination?

Where am I? Where am I hiding?

Beg me not to come out and view this self, so casually circumvented round the mysteries of never.

Beg me not to come out and spend my own self to make richer the dollar maker.

How can I be, when all about me there be nothing?

And how can nothing be, when all about nothing I be?

Where is this existence that hovers somewhere between us and them, between this I and this we?

Is we found inside the pupil, the wires that tell the openings to vision what to see?

Is we found inside the olfactory tubes, lined up and waiting to be called upon?

Is this me in this mirror of disillusioned oppression, made opposite to stare back into the light that is never justly exact?

Or am I, too, the sunshine, my ray only pleasing to the touch of those craving warmth?

Do I burn or do I freeze? Do I make-believe and then make the truth come true?

And if truth be still, if truth stop long enough for witness, then what witness sees this truth of truths? Whose truth is thusly so the path to what is and what isn’t?

How can I be so feather-like in the wind of life that to drop me here in this plane would set me adrift, scattered dust swept through the giant’s hammock strings?

What am I?

And in capturing a voice that answers, what ghost enters through this painted threshold into the emptiness of phantom chamber?