What am I? Or who are we?
Does a frame reflect entirety?
Bared for all who look to see,
the some of parts, the whole of me.
That when weighed found to be short
of all the eye could true report.
Imperfect self to bear retort.
Much left out of much import.
And yet the canvas still requires,
The I in me to paint desires.
What comes forth when self inquires?
That from me which I inspires.
My fractured portrait true is rough,
a testament the task is tough.
A question begged without a bluff,
is to think therefore I am, enough?