I am disappearing,
down into the linen
that caresses my body
as my mind criss-crosses,
chasing through meandering crises
of nocturnal fabrication.

I am full of hope,
and dread... and whispers.
Soft chalk runs out
before the lesson is learnt.
I was truant anyway,
day dreaming of summer.

I am disappearing
into something,
yet I still see
my shuffling footprints,
scoring a perforation
through this continuum;

a seam to tear
and a void to feel expanding.
Fields of livestock
and houses of television faces,
all lost in the gap that is left.
It is potential hidden in false humility.

I am disappearing,
if I fight it I sever
the umbilical cord that
attaches me to my Father.
It is an artery,
with flow too fast to cauterise.

I would disappear in the
dirty needles and
forgotten-butt fires.
Lucid, as I feel my significance
hang its head from my skin
in shame.

I am disappearing,
and I can embrace it,
for my portrait is not
the meaning of my art,
my mansions are all made
of someone else's whispers.

I can disappear within my home
inside walls of emancipation.
Content, as a mole
beneath the tallest mountain,
to blindly fulfil an unseen purpose.

I am disappearing,
and it is okay,
because my name is
a collection of letters,
and my words are
a series of synapse sparks,

and there is much more purpose
to their existence
than merely themselves.
I am disappearing
and that is the best thing
I can think of.

Matthew 16:24-26
John 3:30


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