God changes his appearance every second.
Blessed is the man who can recognize him,
in all his disguises.
― Nikos Kazantzakis, Zorba the Greek
The only memory is alone.
Others pass under the window,
hats, tops of heads,
like wandering waves
against black asphalt.
They come but mostly go,
and never stop.
The skyline seems surreal,
could and should be removed.
The shops across the lane
are doused by traumaed traffic lights,
that bounce on bedroom walls,
on pillowcases choked,
soaked blind.
The furniture, homesick zombies,
decaying like hung meat,
lacquered with bile-smeared sweat,
a satin gray.
The mirror stares back in disgust,
at skin shriveled sugar brown,
cancered with matted hair,
drawn close as dying clover.
Insomnia chooses with relish,
not to sleep, it preoccupies, is human.
Forgetting how to tell it,
nothing is true.
Time drifts like dark tides
and only the collecting filth
is dependable.
The room shrinks.
The dust is moved by melting walls,
like thick parched rust
in driving rain,
exiting sediment seeking rest,
breaths released, never missed,
soul sought fervor never found.