He’s psycho(somatic),
And he plagues the countries beyond the mind.
But oh! his life is tragic
Because he can’t claim anything.
He can’t say, “This wretch is mine.”

The world is holding out
Until he fades,
Until we meet a conclusion:
The disease is kept at bay.
But the boy’s not gone yet.
We’re seeing the prime of his day.
So panic! He rules fickle hearts
While he deals out his cards
With an impossible bluff,
But the girls don’t notice the game,
And his word is enough
To make them smile the doubts away.

Watch him work.
He doesn’t light any candles
(Because he’d only blow them out). What a gift!
What a talent! He welcomes the dark where he sits
But can see their discarded desires –
Like the prayers lungs think when they can’t breathe –
And he says, “Maybe I’ll grant them.”
But don’t hear his words.
They just scream of the themes of the life he can’t lead,
And his offers are all just a scheme.

Wait it out.
Maybe he’ll vanish
(Since impatience was bred from his greed).
But oh! all he wants is reality,
And he’s not finding it because:
He feeds off their day-to-day,
Their notions of the motion of the moment,
But their thoughts are just travesties.
They’re photonegatives drying in the attics of their bodies,
And he can’t trace the original :b r e a t h . o f . l i f e:
Because he’s got no feel. He’s psycho(somatic).
And their thoughts aren’t real;
They’re just part of his static.