billions of imperceptible incisions on the skin of my fingers
from the wires environing my tired skull
from the papers which taper into scribbled drivel

hold it tighter, clench the wire,
picture ichor pouring downward
clutch my senses, make pretenses
dig in my nails, impale my failings

what’s the point?
what’s the point
what’s the point what’s the point
what’s the point the point the point
the point is digging in to my fingertips
a temptress in an abyss, and i odysseuss
the wire is a siren who sings of ichor and gore
and my brain contains only wax
and my heart is tied to the mast