At the beginning of the day, oppressive humidity,
and then as the day progressed from inside
the temperature-controlled chamber of horrors,
the moving subjects on the streets below pulled me in
to the storm, blazing with the dullness of the dark skies, firing
the kilns of aging, and I wonder how do all of these people
become plagued with some portion of my diseases. I become
pestered by the possibility that I may not be the worst
person in the world, which sounds funny, being the worst
anything and in the world, but it’s not funny when you are really it,
when you are king of the worst, and all of these moving
contraptions, you must wonder how they became lucky,
how they were born with an ability to walk life.
But as I pierce the surfaces that are darkened
with honesty by the grimy clouds bearing an abhorrent future,
I detect these horrid fears under the peripheral shark skin.
Does it matter what’s underneath the armor
of crocodiles when they bite so strongly at life,
at helpless pieces of life? Shackled and poisoned, I must look
deeply for those cells that are missing from my survival
process, and as the sun finally arrives, all of the things,
they begin to show joy in life, but I am still searching for one
thing, deep inside, which will push me through the morass.
.
stillfugue 