H.G. Wells - The Invisible Man

I have created a world
composed of blind people.

Winter has not come in my favor.
a fine way of thinking turns into
a composition made of violence.

I stand before a distant audience
who always seem to be reaching, oh
reaching, prying, spying into the deepest crevices of my mind
the ugly person trapped inside an ugly disguise.

They unravel me like the living dead!
a pharoh of Egypt
and a lie
blossoming from the roof of my mouth
looks like dead skin rotting there,

but even this pile of flesh is nothing
compared to the grotesque absence of limbs
and the gaping hole where a mouth should be.

they reached out to touch me
the very moment they recoiled, I disconnected.
I have practiced selfhood all my life
but isolation is a foreign concept--

this feeling
of having been erased.
encased in the body of a temporary host
living like a ghost.