Anton Semenov
A rage both impossible and irresolute
I have no credence to my favor
No leniency in which to stash my fangs
I am wronged by my own wrongness
A hypochondriac devoted to anomaly
A portrait for each asylum, a zero, a space
Essential to calculation but itself meager
My guilt is not simply for show
It is an occupation by which I rend
My heart as if it were a hymen
In the incidentals of a precocious terror
I am a paper moon cast in admonishment
A one-dimensional puppet leaping
From mirror to mirror in search of a face,
A visage less pained to occupy my vanity
mindlovemisery 