Who I am
I do not know,
for darkness lies
a blanket in my mind,
a shroud upon
the window to my soul.
My face unknown,
my name not called
and yet a sense of worth
escapes me not.

I am a man,
unknown to time,
existing only in my mind,
and with this thought
I am as naught,
but just a prisoner,
held in life,
consumed by death,
pitiless, yet pitied
by my peers,
unknown to me,
but not to he
who I should be.