Peopled with the ghosts of the living,
his days take on a shape he cannot own.
He cannot print himself upon them,
is drifting on the currents stirred by others.
His heart is not the centre,
his words float on peripheries,
his will; moulded by unseen hands
whose fingers deftly tune those thoughts
to frequencies he cannot pitch. He wears
beneath his skin,
behind his eyes,
within his skull;
a single membrane permanently stitched,
fixed, blood-fuelled, beating.
Pays for it with glass-clear gestures,
a camouflage that emptily refracts
those lives he doesn't understand.
he no longer feels
to even less