After a certain number of lives you don't exist anymore.
Erasure becomes a habit hard to break.
The other is in such sharp contrast
And you, you are the blur,
As you sift through new possibilities,
Unresolved historical facts,
Like clues in other people's faces
To confiscate in dark alcoves, where they disappear
And the mystery persists:
Why the others don't cooperate at all
With what I think, or take even
A minimum of direction without a hand out
For an impossible, unquenchable treat, or, worse,
Abandon me to the horror show of consciousness ...
It's enough to make me wish to fold into the sweet
Roll of death, to get, at least, away. O how they
Are laughing, in the sky, at that surprise,
How two wrongs can never make a right
But three might.
