Have you ever been wrong?
I was wrong.
Ugly, smugly wrong.
Psephologically wrong.
Hit the iceberg,
smoking’s good for you,
the treaty of Versailles,
left on red,
Copernicus, Aristotle, Custer,
wrong.
I’m not claiming an excuse,
wrong.
It wasn’t you,
it was me,
wrong.
Just fricking
kiss a frog
wrong.
Wrong all along,
wrong about the world,
reevaluate me wrong,
wrong, wrong, wrong.
I can admit I was wrong.
Can you forgive me,
can I forgive me,
wrong
.
.
Songs for this:
Waters of March by John Roseboro & Mei Semones
Stabilise by Nilüfer Yanya

An iridescent glow
A whisper from the dead
Longing to be heard
Distant screams
Cold breath grazing my neck
The agonizing shrieks grow louder
Howling winds
Rustling leaves
Something is behind me
Something is following me
Lurking in the night
The noise is deafening
It's overwhelming
Overstimulating
"I can't do this"
And then suddenly
It is calm
Quiet
Peaceful
And all that I am left with
Is crippling paranoia

Fog and mist rising,
And then disappearing behind the peaks.
Fog and mist rising
From the lake as if
The water itself is burning beneath its lurky surface.
Fog and mist rising and dissolving into the meadows,
Painting the grassland in grey and white.
Fog and mist rising and nestling in the deodars,
Reflecting the icy surface of the water in its vapour.
Fog and mist rises higher and higher than the mountain peaks as if teasing the ***** of the hill.
Fog and mist rising and tainting the hillside until nothing is visible,
Not even the roads in haunted small towns.
Fog and mist rising from nowhere and covering the hills
In blue and grey and white.
Fog and mist rising like an old curse after the rainfall dances.
Fog and mist rising and then disappearing
behind the peaks,
Where there is only the open sky.

Your harsh whips upon my skin,
The shackles around my feet,
The cuffs on my hands,
Why must I endure this?
What have I done?
Did I cause this?
Was it my fault,
O’ dear captor,
Please let me go,
I have a life I must live,
Upon my last vowel,
A booming voice echoes,
“Memento mori”
I’m not perfect I know,
But please give me a chance,
Give me a chance to prove myself,
Allow me to tear off this mask at once,
This crimson speckled mask.

Thank you my dear,
You have set me free,
Now let this be upon me,
I will now perform my greatest act,
And pull off this wretched mask,
As I tug and tug,
I am not released,
For years I try,
Why won’t it come off?
Will I ever be free,
The mask is all I know,
It has been with me through thick and thin,
This so-called wretched mask,
Is it me?  
What constitutes my identity?
What features make me,
Me?
It is as though I have never left those chains,
No matter how far I run,
No matter how many twists and turns,
His voice follows me,
“Memento mori”,
I’ve reached the end of my crossroad,
Remember,
I must die.

At midnight, dancers dead
     A danse macabre dance
With each their dearest dread.
At midnight, dancers dead,
Spinning like spools of thread,
     Haunting a house in France,
At midnight, dancers dead
     A danse macabre dance.

This love has morphed differently within me, heaven struck, caught up by the heights of my devotion, laced with enchantment. I speak your name with longing, as if my words were haunting interludes, in the cacophony of souls whispering a multitude of wishes to a body that once lived — an old figure of myself.