The cause of ignition is inconsequential,
no trigger to let loose the hammer- Only,
I become a passenger, a **** cur.
Softly as a dancer, on swells of change,
undulating to the jangle and clink
of lives being unlaced,
splayed apart  in bitter irony,
displaced into objectivity.
You take it personal,
as if, I am just a faltering piece of personality.
Dropped like salt in the Devils eye,
I'm just over shoulder- needing the fall
into comforting familiarity.
I'm unfeeling, mute and defensive-
peeling self back to where we merge.
At the base I know I am one
but cruelty makes our hands feel like four.
I am my own dark passenger depersonalized,
sloughed off in stress and
bound in unrecognizable life.