How familiar this dark feeling
of being given the gift
only to wake from the mist of a dream
and find only torn wrapping paper.

Know that when you touch my hand
a comparably sized fist of energy
lifts my rib like a window blind
and wakes a tired muscle from dissolution.

The horizon in the West is a golden peach
but only through the lens of smog
which tells us this beautiful lie
in apology for its slow caress of death.

Some of us were born to spread a terrible disease
and can only hope to dress in colorful beads
of opal, purple lilac, and quartz
lest we let it feed on our own unbecoming.

I will not say I have not carried a sickness all my life
-- dragged this rotten sack of fruit through the dirt
in hopes of reaching the earth's end
to roll it off into the infinite black.