I am not sure which was to be part of me,

Or which is now.

Am I the robin or the squirrel?

Who has walked the path between,

and which side of light has seared me?

Is the grey black or white,

Or have I drawn a line of chalk

Down the middle of the water?

What is it to feel when feelings become clouded?

Have I aimed my mark,

missed,

and fallen

where the arrow was to strike?

Have I become the target?

“Ey, I have grown used to it.”

So I would say, but it hurts.

It hurts.