this life is suffocating me.
my skin is not my own and
my flesh is not my own and
my bones are not my own and
my face is not my own and
the only thing i can call my own
is the vaporous noose from which my body hangs.
outsider
More by ender
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life, probably
what is the meaning of it all, anywho?
is it part of some grand scheme, some astral plot
to make us whole again
some day far from now?
perhaps, on the contrary, there is nothing;
are we born simply to exist?
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diaspora
there is a crack in the eye of man
like glass, the light in the fracture
is split like the millions who came before it
never to reform
-
time heals
its tongue flicks at me.
out of the puddle of saliva rolls a pearl.
it dissolves.
what does it want from me?
it slithers away, back to its damp home.
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