I remain but an ephemeral crack
fixed upon contemporary ideals.
Dysphoric waste bleeding out my pores
as my skin sheds but eyes fixate peeled.
But as ignorant eyes preach:
my layered life’s been ample.
Under the moonlight I toss and turn as
my atheist mind’s body is no temple.
But I’ve no name to cry at the dark,
no chants of prayer to bliss my slavery.
My messiah is solemn silence and
my faith remains wet and papery.
But as my arcane troubles
seek solace in numbers,
my comfort is sham when my only cure
derives from body, deems soul impure.