My Wonders

Is it a wonder what I am in nothingness?
I wonder.
Or am I just nothingness,
experiencing a wander?
I ponder.

Or am I
he who, in what he wonders,
creates everything above—
and six feet under?

Am I here,
or is here just a fragment
of my lonesome wander?

And where does the past come from
if I am not a passenger of time,
if here does not exist?

Am I the only man in this world?
Is the world merely a mote in my might,
or am I the mote
in the world of the almighty?

Am I only a sculpted fragment,
assuming the whole sculpture?
Or am I the sculpture,
experiencing
each and every dot?

Or the composer,
living and composing
his own creation?