Blurred vision slowly calibrates;
duplicated horizons slither into one.
The sky is up, the ground below.
But when the reeling ends,
I’m still stranded in this desolate place.
I was born frowning, from meaninglessness,
on a plain which ends only in mists.
Reversion, forever, into very little.
All I have is what I’ve always had;
worthless trinket treasures clutched close.
I awake from year-long fever dreams,
every day with amnesia of that which is good;
wrapped shaking in a wretched shawl,
of grey silken fate, too reluctant to remind me.
When I am drunken on joy, I wake up worsened;
a fatigued and shivering wretch.
My life is a question.
With tired hands it reaches,
striving again for the answer;
can I feel the warmth of the world?
Today and always the answer is no.