There are those who carry worlds within,
walking obituaries,
unable to place,
unable to recollect,
names which might codicil reason.
Their aversions and tendencies
all cross-haired into a mad conglomerate,
at sixes and sevens,
they wander.
Arms splayed,
to catch walls and deflect voices,
screaming reminders of who they were,
before they left,
before they leapt,
God said they wouldn’t make it into heaven.
And there are those,
stein-eyed and unable to breach the surface,
their wires cut,
a forced coupling of who they are,
and what they ought to be.
Beings of chagrin and lust,
famished for brazen fingers,
yet intolerable to taction.
Lackadaisical face to the sky,
rapacious feet sprinting,
cessation knows not their name.
Their void awaits the infinite.