Literature
The Wake
In the absence of this dreaming,
what defines my reality?
These hands, these open palms
suggest duality:
there is only me, and me.
these great instruments of
self-destruction, cast here to poke and prod
beneath the skin for sensation
(and, perhaps, deathly reflection.) They are
such wicked movements! –and yet,
severed, they serve a nonplussed
purpose: to rot.
And I still remain.
These eyes could perceive
the most infinitesimal insects of
detail- but they refuse to, for
the lids merely drip down like static
raindrops, and move no more in
their cowardice, absolute. Only in
the face of truth, scarred and
burning light, can t