the question by Willow Thyme

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The Question

I sit alone on my windowsill,
This body old but yet unused.
Silence, enough to kill,
Who am I?

The moon, it seems to mock me,
Iím caught within itís gaze.
I feel unworthy,
Who am I?

Water poring down my face,
From the wells within me.
Iím trapped in the race,
Who am I?

Nobody cares enough to see,
The pain that passes through me.
Passing through my tiny veins,
In my heart it always rains.
Iím running,
In this race.
Iím panting,
Keep up the pace.
Iím asking,
That cursed question.
Who am I?

And then it comes,
So long Iíve waited,
Yet how it seems so over rated.
It starts to burn,
In my soul.
The question.
That question.
Iím falling,
Into the pits of Hell.
Iím screaming,
This result I could never tell.
But now itís here,
I was so near.
The question.
That question.
They whisper cruelly in my ear,
Who am I? Who am I?

I sit alone on my windowsill,
My heart is slow and steady.
Do you have your answer? they ask,
ÖI was never ready