I am the worldly one.
I sniggered, in spite of rules. But now grieve. Because I am the one, with the cut off face. Who In spite of life, am caved in my own mind. I am just an echo, in the echo of life, chamber.
Unrecognizable, even to myself. I am dissolving. I Will that I leave no trace. There have been those whose love, I have French Trimmed. I have been selfish to the bone.
I lose touch too early.
Now I wave my hand around and scratch smudged memories onto faintly sketched pages. The pages, marked over time, describing in code all the lead weighted anguish, of how I once lived. And how I divided.
Whence up, how once, I loved back.