Disappearing

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