Your eyes slither in moonlight
Swell up to the heavens
And dissipate under the gravity
Of your intransigent mutations.
Almost is more often the case.
Almost is necessary for what follows.
The only questions worth pursuit
Or those with uncertain answers.
I adorn each day a new striation
Is this the way I am to age
Emboldened with strange motifs
And voices that echo before they speak?
Do nightmares penetrate the outer hull
The same as conscious wounds?
Why else would I carry them so long
If the blood was not comparably red?
Who can claim perfection?
Another failure precipitated by inaction
A mannequin would be a more convincing host.
If time permits I might even survive.
It holds that those who hunger
For absolutes are always the first to starve.
I sit here on a filthy curb picking scabs
Butterflies relaying songs of the dead
Through my mutilated knees.