Lilith craved Ficus carica,
Mr. Robot brandished
a branch of Olea europaea.
Would either care to comment
on the state of the world? Their intentions
clear. Is it that "all the world's a stage"
or that all we are is a mirror?
Should it matter that I feel the motions of my mind, and
long to escape without the aid of their counterparts.
Subtle contrarian. Every reaction has its equal
in emotion; each moment has its fulcrum.

For he with the blonde curls,
Who set you from stone to glass,
For he with greyness and age,
Who set you from virtue to lust,
And for the fathers who warned,
Who set you in a statue of shame,
With his constant looks of disbelieving.

For she with the stars of freckles,
Who set you from glass to shards,
For she with the condensation of coldness,
Who set you on route to loneliness,
And for the mothers who neglected,
Who set you with no comfort,
With no help after the males visited.

For the creaks of floorboards,
Threatening unholy arrival,
For the thousands of bed squeaks,
Helping by gifting distraction,
For the hotel clerks gentle knowing smiles,
For the cheeks I can force upwards,
For the sacred of tears that disappeared with new numbness,
For the child within me who had such urgency to grow up,
And for me...for me.

the yearly act of dying and then resurrecting at dawn is no longer as holy
as it could have been the first time it happened
i, no longer have bones within this vessel of ache
and yet i am only tired when they ask if i am okay.
i am never tired even when i am exhausted there is a lub-dub within,
pounding the doors i have
built, to see if i was
capable of safety within these hazardous conditions.
prophetically,
i vision that as i step off the gallows stage
into a trust fall choreographed by a world
that promises to me he is better than this,
there will come
a slither of venom into the halls of this highschool and
the crowd will unhinge their chests and
let the cyanide bubble their veins and
cry out lyrics about how
who we are is who we are is who we are—
but i am only tired, i say.

The stars in the sky, they seem to sear
They are pasted onto a charred black canvas
It's only a matter of time until the glue melts
And what then?-
I think it will rain molten glue
And when it falls,
Who shall it mutilate?
Who shall it blind?
Who shall it bind together?

Mydriasis took stock of a reflection, an outline of a body

drawn by the dim light of an LED bulb
fading through the visible spectrum.
The outline of that body
is given false relief

in an oval mirror, positioned above a small desk.
The room's in the partial darkness, and in the half-light
a pair of eyes wander. Their saccades spill
over the figure’s torso. The darting movement
of both pupils take it in, lingering
on a pair of long but simple chains that hang from the neck.

Each chain-link is different in length,
The only distinguishing features on an otherwise plain male chest.
The longer one looks as if it was onyx
in color, but most of its coat has been worn away
to reveal burnished copper. The silver
chain is slightly shorter, and less worn, a tiny spoon
has been attached to the clasp at its end.

The shifting light of the room drifts out a half-open door
to the left of the mirror. Mydriasis’ eyes meet their reflection.
As they take stock of the impression  they began to wander.
The gravity of those  black holes in the mirror cast a moment
endless as sky. These eyes bask in the half-light, maintaining
their stance but wandering in mind, hallucinating
accent and relief unto the image
until color and texture balloon.
This game they play is but a leisurely swim
in the everflowing Lethe.
They do not shy away

from depth, emptiness. What lies beyond
at that moment implores them to be patient.
Pupils twinkle in the darkness, glittering with praise
for something even darker; yes, they bask in this.
A moment so courteously extended between
the drives of this individual. In that moment
an accord is met. Purpose, given, consciousness
extends by virtue of its immanence; it comes to be
across time, a living memory.

It may not be
who I wanted to be
but so often I find it is who I am, so I take what comfort I can
from my identity. Still, I feel shame for being this way.

I believe I can transform my darkness it into a force
for good but I'm not ignorant to my own corruption;
I believe I can focus my intensity to achieve anything
but I'm aware when persons find this disconcerting.
I believe this is why I burn so slowly, and let shame
destroy me. I don't want to hurt another, so I look
inward
and chain myself,
I cast off my being,
Shave each layer off.

It's a fair exchange, time for experience, but
I feel robbed. What's been stolen from me, that
sense of wonder. My curiosity's been left to slumber.
Has knowledge failed me, or I it? What of discovery, or
the ventures my older poems did venerate? Where is that
mindset gone, where'd it go roving, with whom'd it abscond?
Perhaps I should settle for the present;
I hear the brief patter of rain, interspersed
beyond the soundscape of my own ambient
marmalade. All I care for is music.
Music is the antidote.

Twenty-four
orbits of this earth.
Now I notice my energy
dwindling while the wanderers
carry on, heedless of my
human struggles;
Of survival.
I hear that briefest patter of rain.