I am not one of you.
We are not the same, despite the feeling.
I do not belong.
For it is alone I walk this finely drawn line between Lucidity and Irrational fury.
Whilst Teetering emotionally, theres no sense to be made.
A thick and mumbling mass of membranous tentacles writhing, tendrils conniving, pulsating they dance for me, they dance to their sick immoral song.
Meanwhile the clicking of the accursed mechanical clock cracks the concrete crevasse, the one which runs deep, along my pores.
I worry that the outer shell will break from the times I’ve dropped it on it’s face.
The screaming is so quiet and the murmurs all too loud, and the decibels are tearing us apart, but I’m taking on water now, the captain’s hat is already afloat in the briney.
We watch it together as it floats amongst the razor toothed mongrels slipping through the pristine glass ocean. Ah, but through this lens, I can see much more clearly than before.
Maybe it is I who is pushing too hard, widening the gaps, and tiring my weak body.
But I’ll tell you...
Sometimes I see the line blur.
Sometimes it flutters into the static along with the other lines.
A pixelated extravagance
shaking and rippling through the sky,
so fuzzy and precisely incorrect in it’s particular disaster, the static dysphoria is the backdrop. It is now that the ocean dries, and the beautiful pools of glass slip away to reveal two figures standing in a harsh and windy field alone.
Their hands are bound with barbed wire, and their palms are clasped together with one deliberate nail. It is here that one man and one woman stand, their clothes whipping about in the unrelenting storm,
under one static sky.