Only imitation of daylight touches me.
New air finds yellow skin through vents in the window,
or else in the brief presentation of my bowed head
each time I succumb to nicotine and black lung.

It is a depression of inactivity,
not worth the document. These daydream catacombs
afford me translucent substance of consciousness,
and untraceable, numinous identity,

so that with each day I can be spun-out again.
The only reality in which I engage
is that of words, words, words – meandering delights
of categorising all fear into known terms.

Lo, how the quantum world beholds this emptiness.
Great depths of solidity, Mother Earth's mantle -
tectonic collisions of Biblical tirade,
of all shield, political firewall and bloodshed;

discarded in the nothingness of the atom.
These ****** words too, will offer no quantum relief.
Each thought lives brilliantly, but in a moment,
and words, words, words, are but the thunder that follows.