I fashioned
myself a tinfoil crown proof against
the inclemency of nature when gods
and sorcerers tamper with my head I
was trying to set things straight christ
knows I tried with razor blades and
sealing wax to peel back sixty years of insulation the features the faces the names stripped away to reveal the emptiness of self a million illusions consigned to memory
it’s half
past dead in the morning I’m pall
bearer to my dreams I feel it
closing in the certainty of loss but loss does not define me it simply reveals the true me I count my wounds instead of sheep every night is a little death my
isolation is a gift of the gods a test
of my endurance isolation is the currency of individuality the sacrifice of my social appendage in honour of a selfish heart
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