Blank Slate

For some, a memory is vilipend

For I, its importance I cannot pretend

An island                                             

Alone

Or is it?

For my origin defines otherwise

Without it I am

Nothing, bland

A woman without laughs or bouts or cries

An island

                                                Alone

It is not

What I cannot live without I will have

With it I am

Who I am

A tree past the physical branches out

An island full of history

The basis of me

Irrevocably

The basis of who I am ‘till Earth’s end

What will never change, what will never bend.