en outre it would not matter; another could not
reach into my I with eyes, distil the lies from
all I place before us in a manner of protection.
ritual in means of fighting off my imperfection,
shape in comely terms unwanted burnings,
go through painless motions without turning
to the weakest of my halves, the surest of
my whines to sour such sweet conversation.
illness is that never was, string and threading
on lost causes I attach too much of an importance
to, lend too many helping hands to, look into
a mirror to discover you – face turned savage
but in passage to somewhere I cannot follow.
in me it does not matter; simply put it’s just
a jacket, not its wearer but the bearer
of the cold sweats I inhabit.