Wanting to find yourself.
Far from delusion.
Nearly an obstruction:
the very end.
Deception as its most.
Scarce like true health.
Plagued by myself,
running only to lose.
Mere mortals, us, and
nothing more.
Bare nude hands when
all that matters is gone.
Hunger in absence
and yet you eat more
and more. Later you starve
in oblivion and disgrace.
But isn't the head of what I see.
Just a profound recall of what I lived.
Isn't this cold, this rust, this anger
what moves beneath their feet.
Then again this black ache burns.
Like a shadow that relieves
as obscure as it seems.
Clueless, as a newborn.
No remorse, no isle.
No more avoiding the new me.
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