At this agued, Cimmerian periphery of existence, how hard it is to conceive,
Of a day when everything danced, nay, skittered in the blinding, blazing sunbeams,
The blistering heat underfoot, the plump looseness of the flesh around unfrozen bones,
The thirst, the undying, relentless thirst; the constant perspiration of supple skin,
The abandon, the licentiousness, the gluttony obscured by the benevolent rays
Long gone are the colours, the crunchy-crispness, the ripe-juiciness,
Replaced by a monochromatic greyscale, all’s dry, brittle, withering at the hemline,
Which life is it that’s real I wonder… the heady rush of yesterday did so paint a pretty picture,
And in that intoxicated state, I might (I am almost sure of it) have become a blurry, obfuscated thing,
Blinded in the summer blaze, deafened by the roaring skies, muted by the esurience of the sultry nights
Now a few moons it’s been since I woke up to find someone else inside my skin,
someone not me, an anti-me... what's the opposite of a shadow?
As the bruised horizon swallowed the wine-infused ocean,
My yesterdays became estranged from my tomorrows,
I’ve lost my way down this anfractuous path---this web for human spiders
I ache for that which I used to be,
That voraciousness, that yearning, that appetite for life,
That suppleness, that elasticity, that lightness of spirit,
That hopefulness, that faith, that effervescence of delight,
Am I an imposter now or simply metamorphosed?
All of it settles upon me like a fine film of dust,
This newness, hardness, coldness, starkness,
This greying, sagging, gnawing, clutching,
These implements for a life meant for living, not leaving,
How does someone become a stranger to themselves?
And carry on living, carry on loving,
Carry on wanting and needing,
Carry on giving and taking,
Carry on thinking and feeling,
Carry on... just carry on?
