how long
have i felt
like
a figment
a fugitive
a tall tale
just the whispers of
an ugly soul
that cries
paint smears
on the run
from future sins
a trail of
heart shaped
pockmarks
wherever
he rests
his cavernous skull
the winding roots
snake through
his steam powered
insubstantiality

i am either
the deficient sum
in the rambling odes
a paint by numbers
poet
or
a shadow box prophet
drowning
in words
no one
will ever see
foretelling
an ending
that sounds so
goddamned
inviting

the thing is

even i don’t know
not anymore
a phoenix in reverse
slowly
burning to death
yet unable to die