How do you feel anything at all?
Do you hear steps at the door?
Do you reckon the smell of….?
It’s life, the dark that binds you.
Frigthened by your own smell.
Bitternes will run you through.
Silent screaming.
Turning, twisting the alphabet.
Frantic eyes.
Awaiting the answer.
Splinters of a poem.
Fragments of what you used to be.
Habitual and gullible.
Run-down memoirs is all that’s left.