Ignited by the cold
Sizzling stirred bones
Fleeing from my own
Tattered castle of thorns
Over and over
In the same old scorn
Lying still & consoled by
My talking head

Festering into the truth
Of a faded fabrication:
Digging the dirtied root
Of consumed, calloused elation
Over and over
In the same old scorn
Lying still & consoled by
My talking head

"I could be that person," I said.