“who the hell are you?” she says.
and i wonder how odd a question that is.
“who the hell am i?” i repeat,
with a rippling inflection on the i.
i take a seat and turn the table,
“who the hell are we?” i ask.

well, who the hell are we?
look at us.

we rise from the ashes
and we fall from grace.
we split into classes
and divide by race.
we try and hide pain
and yet it’s on our face.
we’re all so individual
and still so interlaced.

who are we?
look at us.

we’re just objects in motion.
just objects in space.