Am I so jaded I’d spit out to dwell a doldrum?
And in this state, I’ll often feel safe
being at arms length and change with all
but in this delusion,
how oft I feel collected
contrasts how disheveled these pieces are
and taxed at their core.
A grey stacked so high feigns the warmth of quilts
Of which I often seek and have yet to know.
Yet still I push, substituting tender embraces
With jacket sleeves and vacancy
In my own eyes.
Like all vacuums, they are wont
To accept anything
Thus feeding back and insisting illness.
The pulses in my fingertips spells out sweeter sentiments,
Preaching beauty in this world,
As do a songbird or a Tyger’s roar,
The sheep, perhaps, less sweet in its semblance to my own vacancy