Eigengrau

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?