Bright heat shelters me,
Absorbing doubt into a glowing orb.
A cocoon,
wrapping me up in silky denial
And
offering the freedom to pretend.

Crisp air weaves it’s way between my bones,
Shedding burs
into every notch.
The prickle in my neck taps Morse into the skull,
The truth that looms like Babadook:
     
      The excavator of ideas
       is a soulless body
       that only dreams
      of digging the earth.

Suspended in-security,
turning thoughts to stone.
The chisel makes its mark

My hands are tied, the artist is fear.