The Visitor

The walls of oblivion are feather-soft

In my house, in the house of insanity;

This jacket’s sleeves are highway-long –

All this fabric to cover my nakedness


Yellow ceiling lights can’t disperse the fog

But they chase me, feeding on my dementia;

The whispers within me, the cries outside

Are nauseating in their blatant randomness


When you visit this, do not hope it’s me –

Couldn’t catch me with all your dexterity

This is just a mirror for your private shame

Don’t you love the reflection of what you did?

6 thoughts on “The Visitor

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