St. Thomas
Life was a hallucination in disguise
my job, was a catalyst for this
undesirable perdition.
A common thread for humanity
I am not amiable, dear reader,
no matter how much Lyndon calls me
a good person. Good I am not. Fearing a god
his existence I put no trust into.
I write essays
on essays about the works of the devil, all to
facilitate whatever amicable spirit I can leave
as a trail
to capture me a witch.
Life was a hallucination in disguise, I malinger
every day without having to lie.
They were adamant
I must deserve this empirical disposition,
but I don’t know.
It may be as Lyndon's therapist says:
all about trauma.
So aloof, we grew distant and distant
the more I knew I had left
the shores of belief.
Imagine how funny if I had got it all wrong.
You and I, celestial beings? So intimate, I mark
my being in you, Xing Jun. Here, or someplace
else, altogether.
