I am a child with a dusty attic for a mind,
barren but for phantoms drifting through dust motes
suspended
in beams of light sneaking in
between cracks in the floorboards gnawed into existence by
feeble mice mistaking decaying wood
for answers.

I am sculpting my fears
onto bark with the blood of a squid,
outlining the contours of uncertainty,
breathing in-
to quarantined corners.

I have spent twenty-one turns round the sun
searching with empty questions
and a map penned by a charlatan,
blinded and bound
believing my fingers had grasped more than my own flesh, yet

I am huddled in my attic,
scrawling gibberish onto the walls
endless and irrelevant,
swaddled in a flea-infested blanket
of regurgitated beliefs.

"God give us this day our daily intolerance."

I am helpless on the edge of the multitudes,
speechless in the face of unmarked territory,
with wide eyes and clenched palms
in the sight of divine anarchy.