like a helium headed fantasy it swims,
swims like a swan across ice that freezes your fingertips to the surface of the water.
what good would it do?
what good would it do?
what would be good would not full-fill its purpose and would in fact be the irrational
fear that creeps across like a fox slinking behind a rabbit.
what good? no good, no god, no life no death, no
anything.
but what good would it do?
what badness would be erased by the so called goodness that you claim to bestow upon my being by determining the laws of my ways like a judge
or a god that dictates the lives of those who aren't even aware they exist?

touch
untouch
dripping like a tap that you can’t quite tighten,
that existential drip that worms it’s way into your every day sounds,
like a clock tick that renders you unable to sleep when the repeat disappears,
like sleeping in a strangers house in somebody else’s skin.
that zip that never zips, a constant vulnerability,
one that parades as a security but prays on the mind in the small hours,
one that drips and drips and ticks and ticks and decays and decays,
and decays into a pulsating mass holding a shattered visage of the man behind the man behind the mask.
it drips drips drips and ticks ticks ticks and decays and decays and decays like a stuck clock,
like a broken mechanism,
like a stuck record that repeats, repeats, repeats,  
it drips like a clock,
and ticks like a tap,
it decays like the mask behind the man.

I see you in the cracks of her smile.
The cracks that curl and creep like the conscious blades that slide across my body when I see you with her and I can’t think,
About the way her smile mimicks mine when you sell her your recycled words that once rang in my ears,
And now ring in hers like a church bell, because you took your time at the speed of light and now I’m
Broken.

With cause yet without reason she exists,
With sapphires for windows and a searing callous pith for a soul. Gentle yet vicious,
Deafening yet silent, stagnant in movement yet ever moving yet nobody cares.

Drenched in sunrise her skin flashes gold, and silver, and apricot and peach, and ***** coloured like worn cotton of a saari,
Cascading in emeralds and diamonds and rubies whilst filling the empty space with daggers that slice through the very nature of what it is to be human.

And still as she is constant in her ways of corroding the bewitching emigres on which she laid her foundations,
She is fickle.
The once sapphire windows become dulled and turn to lulling pools of icy slate,
Her viridian flesh tears down the breath it once nurtured.

The sapphire windows become slate and the viridian flesh becomes sapphire, and all is left is nothing.