You emerged over my barren shoulder,
And I permitted your absence to be
Seen as a figure you could hold to its being.
I broke the file in anticipation, hoping you would
See their words they wrote against the screen. An
Impairment seen by the blind.
I begged of you, and all you could tell me is this world is a
Broken projector, missing the reel. And before I asked
I knew the answer. No others are the size of it’s blank. Though there’s
No use for it’s mourning, we seem to be stricken and writhing with
It like a sickness.
I heaved. Your anchored perceptive seems
Too close to the unenviable. My gifts are no
Longer useful, and you tell me to continue to grip
The handle with my broken bones? This strength you seem
To deem real, is proving that you are constructed of lies. Each
One probing me further down your stairway, to the back of your
Lair. Inhaling smoke, this is all false.