I am become the splinter
under the skin of this timeless void,
the bandage against this bleeding,
this world without reprieve,
days passing slower than comatose thought.
I am become a wound that won’t heal;
The stitches forever opening
like a writer’s veins at his Olympia.
And like an artist without a muse;
I wait for the world to heal over me,
black and scabbed—numbed.
to dress me in nonchalance—
in the melancholy of my own nostalgia.