And sometimes I wake still painfully unaware of why I have.
or why I do.
It is mornings dark and strange as the night that birth’d them
and sodden pillows
and ticking clocks
and floor’d sheets little hard evidence of the stall’d guerilla attack.
It is memories of a place I have not been
but a place I cannot wipe away with so much sweat or tears were every inch of me crying like a child lost
a ghost weeping in a market crowded with bodies
but only bodies
faceless, headless ambling with so little a purpose as my isolation cum orphan.
I stir often with regret.
With all of the quiet practiced precision of a warfield coroner.
With all of the diluted ignorance of an uncupp’d moth.
It is genuinely here that I sleepShuffling languidly in sunlight and utterly wrested.