I feel the crush of whimsical loss,
A torrent of torment flays my soul,
The gravity of attachment pains my hands
Walking through fire-swept brush, I feel nothing.
My heart feels it all, every lance, every sin.
Keep the clown smiling within,
The empathetic attach to my broken frail corpse.
High on a cloud wishing I was still of substance,
Wishing someone had just asked me,
To just accept my malady of the mind,
As a quirk and not the sum of me.