I am nothing,
The rattle of car keys in empty vases.
Who are you?
An often asked question, though rarely answered by those such as me.
But, I suppose, I can be defined by Potter's Fields, unmarked graves.
And printed paper, ink drying in the morning's wind.
I can be defined by this.
The simple way of words,
These lovely letters, floating from the dark.
So I am nothing, and yet
I am everything.