alien presence from womb to tomb,
in every room that awkward stare; that awkward glare;
what are you doing here? i don't know you. i don't want to know you.

amiable how-do from me to you,
my face may protract to a hue of blue; just a react' to the chance of contact.

and why this now after so many years?
have i not been open? - must i declare my fears?
must i be bare from skin to bone to even feel scarcely at home?

it must be the i - and not be the you -
because it's not in the eye - it's me that's askew

so now each day with the ebb and the flow,
the torturing, twisting, tightening is kept far below -
a smile, a wave, a friendly slight nod of the head;
i may seem warm, but i'm already dead.