As if my moieties were grated and the blunt shards
Interpenetrated each other, denying
The existence of a chance to put it all back together.
Out of place, out of self, out of predictions.
That’s how I am.
I hold tightly the inorganic handle as if it could maintain
Me wrapped in stripes of confidence and stamina.
Do you guess the tremor of futility, the ache of inability
To glue and keep true through the haze that chokes your days?
That’s how I feel.
A window out of reach, a too thick and sly wall ahead.
Is there any way round it, any damaging force left in,
Any trick to get out of the squashed, worn and torn hat
As to jump over, climb on, crush to the other side? None yet.
That’s where I am.
Bleacher of absenteeism on my soul’s thin bifocals.
Utter void of senses, livid circle of rebuttals, a fingertip
Bleeding needles and impotence of foreseeing the release.
That’s where I feel.