I, Outsider

In an dreamless dream, I am awakened
in the centre of a triptych, an opaque
and leaden warped counter-reality
of our concrete pedestrian world.

Logic and purpose follows the school
of Escher; sequences ascent and trip
up in staggering staircases without
landings.

The linear perspective mellows away,
colours and playful contrasts of
shadow and light sink in latrinary
ooze.

I leaf through an almanac drenched
in sepia that poorly attemps to hide
the icy slate grey of yesteryears
ensconced in perpetual dusk.

I register no words, only their beclouded
silhouettes in wasted away ink. I listen to
epics in categorically unredeemable
trifling matter.

Relinquishing all apprehension, I infuse
the exiled soul in a concatenation of
rhythmic murmurs between the amative
sea and my vexed blood.

I walk in desolation; my surroundings are
soaked in bitter-sweet melancholy
cowled over the pox marks of congenital
grief.

Lofty prospects and bloated fervor run
on high heels; the rank stench of
angel lust taints the air.

How can someone walk so uptight and
confident down the aisle of their church
of vices?

Thrown into the here and now,
I have no bearings in this
conundrum.

I am an outsider.