Postcard From Nowhere
By morning, you will be invisible.
These are your own infidelities working.
Each betrayal has subtracted a bit of you.
Your own cruelty has left you wobbly.
The last snowball finds its way to hell.
Your surrealist suit is badly wrinkled.
Your opposing thumbs no longer do.
Every message is an oyster of bad news,
the improbable pearl of your vanishing
snarled in its putrefying flesh.
Only discontent lurks in the darkness.
Perhaps you deserved better luck.
You are drowning in a fever of freedom,
too swathed in sweat to float.
The Ceremony of Wounds nears conclusion.
Just time to jot a few garbled words.
Soon, there will be nothing left to fear.
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