PROSAphobia; Intense And Irrational Fear Of The Normal&mundane. by Lillesan
To claim this is what life is
a tangled mess of never-ending, never-starting threads
woven into and around each other.
A complicated process of
explanation
which never truly reveals anything other than what you already know. My heart beats
two four
two four and my mind
reels
and I feel the bruises of self-attuned violence
without sympathy or empathy
for any of it.
I don't know if anyone can understand the
ephemeral state of
consciousness
I've coaxed myself into.
This corner, once used as a cover
a defensive move that's
placed me
straight
in the path of
your ivory Queen.
How can it have ended up that
I feel so oddly placed
among those who
were once deemed friend
and
now my only and favorite companion is
the school counselor
an hour maybe, once a week
Lunchtimes are filled with
wind and sun and words and
ravensong.
Afternoons are occupied by long walks or rides
away away away.
More words fill my nights and sometimes
music.
Mornings
are the space for
thinking, planning, dreaming.
And the day is gone from me in a split
second
without anything happening that's
superficially, truly productive.
Always cold.
I look at the sky and see
a broken face; tearful eyes and a broken nose
fallen ears and
a broadspread grimace.
Meaningless to
you.
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