He is the Human
He is the slumbering underbelly of the damp vapors of salty seepage and sticky pieces of hairy meat moving about in convolutions of a fatty ballet of dark precision and upon each thrust of the foot, nightly anguish of the ants and the ground below strive to rattle in measly whimpers.
He is the death to his breath, an over-flung arrow; slippery but equivocating death to mere existence of a horrid, in-different dream of his own imagining.
He champions speech with a skinny brow of skin inside his skull’s belly. He barters the world with his obtrusive extensions of anger, fidgety and ego.
He is the power of his own self-esteem. He is the product of his own wishes slowly melting into a torrent of his fears barely holding up through lies.
He is the human.
