Its name... What is its name? It only hears a desperate whistle
Who owns this clothing that tightly hugs its back and sheers its front?
Who is this "me" it longs to remember? Questions...Questions...
It fears the ghostly moon as it stomps in the dark and windy street with golden sinful locks and smeared black tired eyes.

'God... Who is this being?' it asks a stray cat that loiters the back alley of Vatolli's Italian Cuisine
Walking...
It has stowed a book beneath its cradle, a springy mattress of no true owner
The big man in pimped-purple swag garmented in strings of gold and jewels--is he God?
It asks, 'is living smothered in smoke, drowning in mere pettiness just to fill his money jar his will for me?'
A quiet mouth painted red and strapped elevated legs is
Leaning on a building...
It can see the stars. It can see the clouds and in its dreams it sores above the city instead of patrolling the city's diseased paths to no-where.
Running...
Heart...this it knows it has. Yes. It beats a wild hopeful hymn
It sings a lullaby that hushes the Big purple man, that silences car horns, cries of horny"desperados" that battles to aid the search of identity.
It heard her voice.

Her...who is she? Stephanie! I remember now. My touch is feisty yet curative, timid but willing
Who is she? I think I may know.
The devil's nightfall begins once more, it is time to go.
The frosted moon glances at her with a wide modest grin
it loosens her cuffed hands and carries her away from the Big purple man. She swims. She flies. An object no more, I'm alive.