Magnetically drawn to the reticent,
to the underestimated,
to the forgotten.
To those dripping in doubt
without realization of themselves.
Naivety lies perfectly next to my cynicism,
and in the tiny spaces in between them both,
between tangled legs
and tongues entwined
lies a soul in flames, burning.
Burning from the madness,
caught in the circling drum of
the subconscious.  
Over thinking, analyzing,
until the vultures sweep in,
only to realize there nothing left.  
What self can be given that is not recognized as such?
So foreign that mirrors glare back vacantly
and footprints disappear beneath the sand.