Your jaundiced words break me as they
would the saplings in my growing paradise,
amongst the half-finished wings I knit
from palm-fronds on ultra-violet nights,
when I cannot even examine my soul
in the mirrors, which I shattered with my
inability to lie.

There are no people there,
though my voice echoes back in distorted clichés –
sympathetic answers to my unanswerable questions;
for I've understood, in this most real of realities,
where thoughts float like crayon streaks
before me:
I've nothing to say.
(Sellotape the splinters of my soul)
I've absolutely nothing to say.