I’m guilty too long in clean, comfort-shut eyes.
It is very disappointing I have yet to shed this illusion.
I smell the world which is true, though we have not met,
and the lessons of my adolescence were ammunition
for the form I was born to, regretfully.
What holds me now is fear, though I will rename it shamelessly
until I am detached as from my own murders and subjugation.
I must face the world extra, else it will pass me yawning.
I am a white man and not particularly poor.
I could sleep through the real Armageddon, it wants nothing with me.
This is hateful. I’m tempted to forget
those shivering images of pain because the wolf will not come for me
but I am human, and I am the wolf unwillingly.
I have not crushed my hand in the gears to force them still.
I have not bled. I become drunk on Camus and complacent.
I must begin again to feel: fear and that total upheaval
which becomes daily more necessary.