The Question - By Kasey
I am the Banter, painting words upon fluffy clouds,
Clever beyond measure, or not so at times, not really,
As I speak of this or of that... that is,
But mostly this, for that would be there,
And here is where I find myself, usually, mostly.
Still, it is strange how black and white seem so clear,
How distinct is up as opposed to down,
When in fact they do not exist beyond this memory in which I play,
So when you ask is it left?
Is it right? Is it evil?
Is it good?
Do you think that I should answer straightforwardly?
Am I to bend my gender around the sun?
Or plant my age within the moon?
Shall I define being in another's terms, mutating my skin into all the hues of the rainbow?
Or shall I amuse myself with my own rules and rule it all, As both master and as slave?
As actor and as director, as audience and as censor?
And why would anyone care what I think?
Why should they?
For I am but a figment of their imagination, scribbling verse in crayon,
Truth on freshly painted walls, deception easily wiped away with cleanser,
And then the universe will once again be pure, as if.
Banish me to the corner, as the rogue that I am,
Save the planet, emancipate the stars to fall freely from the heavens once again.
Mete out my just reward and establish righteousness for its own sake.
Whatever. It is all so silly really, for I have no crayons, and you have no walls,
And whilst I weep alone in my exile, even as others close their doors to me,
I suddenly recall,
I am the hermit, and the colors are my world,
And my salty tears were but seasoning for thirsty blades of grass.
So, to your question I reply, Yes is the answer, and No is the answer,
For the question and the response are always the same,
Though the inquisitor is often too wise to see it.
Such is the way of the philosopher poet, such is the way of the word.
