It is I

This is I, and not you, my onlooker, nor another from out there
This is I, not a you, nor another, not a him, nor a her, nor a them
This is I - from a test-tube extracted, like a rocking-doll without arms or legs -
                              round -
an exhibit that however magic-less, still is a word,
                              Or, at least, is a sound.

This is I, who five continents never has seen, for I lived on the sixth.
This is I, who my very own documents never read, neither hence nor forthwith.
This is I, who a step from my target misstepped, even though I'd been
                              trailing it hot
for some reason afraid of appearing to step livelier than I had stepped.
                              And why not?

This is I, whether weigh me or measure, all the same, not a them, nor an it.
Even if I'm not me, even if I am no-one - all the same, matters nary a wit.
This is I, from the ditches always climbing alive, not dead
                              But calm.
Then declaring in speeches that art doesn't need sacrifice
                              Not ever, not one

It was I that the thick-snouted boss shouted orders to over the lines.
It was I that the six-winged angel gave no sting when he cut off my tongue.
It is my awkward verses deriding cursed embittered (young, grey-haired) fans, whose lot
Was deciding my rambling writings hard to play on their seven synthetic strings - 
                              And why not?

It was I who rained tears to the ground, no less volume than those shouting "shoot!"
It was I who has never had ten tens of friends; of what relevance roubles are is moot.
It was I who, avoiding deceit, tested cursed metal, with teeth
                             as my tools
It was I who denied the tyrant elite, not for being animals, vandals, but because
                             they were fools

'tis the ringing of crystal and silver; 'tis the rainbows of mercury ice.
Exhibit, hangman's noose, guilliotine, I mean no, I mean yes, yes twice.
It was I who scratched on a wall of Balthasar's just this minute the words of 
                              all this rot
Whether these scripted verses will survive past the fire only God knows -
                              And why not?

It is I, whose capricious lips cannot seem to finish these words.
And why not, and why not, and why not, and why not, and why not, and why not?