my sense of accomplishment
(or maybe recognition)
has stumbled down sewer pipelines
gone with the waste that is time
fragmented and shattering on whims
of desperation
when I need her most
that vandal, she's in disguise
as me, as productivity,
when I run away from ransacked souls
when I color my face with masks
that I hope you'll enjoy
(after already knowing the vanity, the idiocy)
and the brevity seems all too imminent
you stretch your arms out bare
to embrace the painted figure
recalling nothing but a few pounds of flesh
I am a fragment as time is a fragment
of imagination cusping reality.
a tattered piece of (wo)man
while you think it innocuous
there are corners that I curl up in
to ride the bouts of too-human states of mind
staying there for days
in the lonely, caulked walls
my face embedded into the architecture
a soul for the next residents to find
for it's lost upon mine own mind
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