Unconvincing. Irreducible.

The complexity of a long-shadow rendered in the simplest terms,

is frustrating.

For all it’s obfuscation, you expect its murky tentacles, and the crevices they occupy, to remain unfound.

To persist as imperceptible.

Perhaps why, deconstructing the equation of its holding – once figured / once exposed,

Resists integration.

Prevents experience.

Patterns over against penetrating belief.

You still stand alone – disgusted at the easy dispersal of its magnitude / of its transparency.

Open / readable / agreeable.

Away from that theory-laden exchange,

Your transcendental moment dissipates like a whisp of an ink-shroud on the tide.

And the complexity litters again, like a dark-glitter at the circumference of your experience.

There’s something terrifying about that,

But also something like an old-lesson.

Like the Tempest wails: An everyday odyssey.


Inherited guilt-ghost.

So it’s here.

A burning scourge within through the most innocent of glances.

A disorientating fear on the edge of sleep, like a heavy weight on the mechanism of morning.

A sickness inherited.

A guilt-ghost of a broke-jekyyl but successful hyde.

Blinded to thoughts that aren’t my own – victim to a pelvis-bowl of illusions that perform like a futile test on a runaway innocent.

And despite solid-placing, true knowing and love keeping – I still wobble down the street under the weight of misplaced accusations.

Still sweat out thick his grease.

Still scratch out his presence on my skin, but in steps that feel fresh-as-my-own.

Steps that neatly erase my history.

Steps that make me him, without his shadow.

I see you.

And forgive you.