The pinhole in the camera
revealed fiery depths:
reality is phantasmic.

I smoked a menthol,
leaning against
weathered brick.
Urban static futility :
A two dimensional figure,
birth marked but nothing
to signal this death.

Chain link personified, I was
perfume, a misguided martyr -
now in absentia. The lost links
fractured my fragile back,
as I craned to view the eternity

that we had conspired to create.

I am no longer
humanity

but my splintered fingernails
tell a different story.

a/n: Most recent incarnation of a piece that is meant to be utterly illuminating but fails to live up to its potential. I can only blame myself.