A Cold Numbness Embraces a Sojourner in Mourning (Some Days Feel Like:)

Dreams castrate the young of ambition,

whisking troubled thoughts away, implanting

euphoria in the place of realized contrition—

Doom is the only premise left unexplored,

when traction disengages the neurology

abandoned within those predestined to starve upon their own needfulness

Feral qualities sliver thin the mirrored gaze,

leaving the only interpretation the imagined

predisposition that reincarnates the deformations of the brain

Catatonia is preferable to the self-imposed restraints

that fit snugly beneath the seam-lines of our favorite

Clothes, leaving only the scents of wherewithal and apathy to fragrance one's ephemerality. 

Shredding the fetters of the past is the only absolution we can deliver truthfully.  Tiny renderings are the adipose reflections we blindly flee from, layering the tornado with a future sconce illuminated by the abandoned renderings of debris.

And then, other days, feel like nothing at all…