It roams the streets,
That archaic figure - unaware of that voyage.
It is skinned, a little pale perhaps.
Seeking a beacon, a red light.
Amongst the people.
They are numbers.
They never tend to amaze me.
But there is something difficult to comprehend about that flesh; that tongue; the earthly scent of your mouth.
I roam the streets; how finite that voyage seems.
Your hometown; your current workplace.
They are not real, they are not you.
However, I am you - your keen countenance; the inked unsolvable equation.
It is jubilant - clutching your skin like a saviour.
Prepare your dirge,
Prepare the pansies.
My bones are leaving; my fingernails - weakening.
I am perilous by too much soul.
By the smoke that is reaching out.
My last forlorn attempt is not foreseeable.
*Find me before I find myself.