The fog, visual genocide,
Pries all paraphernalia
From my blistering irises
Only blankness will serve this day.
Patient like the needles on gorse
I wait mouth as wide as a drain
And suckling as if the air
Might hold some molecule
Capable of sweetening this sobriety
And how many candles
That you should rise now
With such vengeance?
A vulturine army collecting
On these static grievances
Oh fog, you have made me a chameleon
So scarce I cannot even find myself
Not even a thought
To resuscitate the previous
I shall die in this amnesiac sea,
Flailing as Medusa’s vicious cortege
Voice in tatters, hands white as soap
I have been organizing paperwork all day, very monotonous work not particularly inspiring!