all this blackness and sticky fear
until my sides wear thin and I
feel nothing more than a paltry
whisper of something near and dear
until the skies implode, I feel
nothing and everything, until
all that is clear is cloudy

and then each walk and promenade
reveals itself
and while old and withered
amongst the banks
of the Seine: and while a book rustles
and the children play,
a future stretched out in front of me
cat like, limbs akimbo

I want peace
and I want no part in this
anymore - what's the point?
there's a point, I assure myself
and then I stretch thin again
and start back at square one
with a plastic body and a head
full of too many odds and ends
and no thread to pull it all together