Questionable - A Poem

There is always
a question as to
whether I exist:
am I dreaming
this nightmare reality?
do I recognize
this brutish form?
Or am I character
in a post-modern novel?
a fiction of film?
perhaps, I am
the lingering thought
of a lost culture,
an alien seed
planted firmly in
unfamiliar soil;
sometimes I wake
in the dark hours,
wandering and wondering,
whittling away
this unfashioned clay,
trying to conceive
who and what I might be
But only the question
seems to have substance,
and so I relax
into the relapse
of the benumbed mind,
sliding tight the lid
on the crucible
of my uncertain awareness,
and drift into fantasy,
vowing to make myself
whatever I choose to be