A simple fire,

Dowsed in the flammable decisions of a simple man,

Even the act of putting his words onto paper gives him the narcissistic relief of being closer called an artist, to himself, by himself,

He sees faces daily that are like ghosts now to the simple man whose mind meanders and thoughts get foggy,

Hours go by like seconds in his catatonic state,
Everything he does is a simple man’s choice where input is minimized and outcomes are swiftly forgotten,

Where memories from years ago bleed into what happened yesterday or the day before,
Each experience becomes an island,
Waking up with no connections,
Just an oceans worth of uncertainty,

Like a composer who hears the music of his orchestra for the first time and, oblivious, leads them into crescendo with a simple man’s insincere talents,

Absent, in many things, he tries to live as comfortably as he can with routine becoming a safety blanket that itches like hell in the middle of the night but still he manages to sleep most of his days away,

Every regret for everything he could be doing but isn’t,
Everything he shouldn’t be doing but is,
Lives on his scalp and the insides of his decaying cheeks,

Maybe it’s all just the summer heat getting to him.