He stands in the corners of all his thoughts to elude visibility
pacing, carefully tracing his steps along the lines that connect them
and make him coherent
He likes to make this trip and no one ever expects him -
he just shows up and collects
His mind stores things
he keeps people there then walks about, spits them out,
leaves them everywhere
He spends his days expelling curses, claims it helps him focus
And he reasons like an insane man does -
with too much passion and not enough pain (the good kind)
But you can't tell him that, you can speak but he won't listen
He'll write you in while you write him off,
then appear on the outskirts of some dream you're having
or conjure up your next nightmare
This drifter will be there
He'll seek out the holes in your brain and live there,
spend the time to make you his mime
Then through your veins he'll live divine,
feed you words that he's disguised
And while you choke on bitter rind,
he'll string you up, a wooden chime
He'll take the song that you contrived
and pen his name upon the lines