distance

The world goes distant.

I can feel myself

slipping

dissipating

into the words,

the worlds

that I bring life to.

Somehow I feel 

betrayed, 

but their revolution. 

They rise quietly. 

It’s a silent sort 

of uprising.

The way 

these thoughts

wind around 

my wrists-

Ink twisted 

to chains.

There is no say

for me

in what i write,

the words that pour 

from somewhere-

I don’t know. 

They’re pulled from me, 

and my heart aches-

almost distantly, 

as they appear

before me.

My sight is equally

treacherous, 

holding me 

at a distance. 

I don’t know 

what those words say. 

What I’ve written. 

What has been pulled

from me?

From where? 

What moment of life, 

of fear, 

of loss, 

has been 

torn from me, 

left on this screen, 

on that paper 

for the World?

Those moments 

of mine, 

moments 

I don’t remember

and moments 

I treasure. 

There they rest

for you, 

dear reader,

to pick apart 

the fractured factions 

of my sanity.