There is a thing in me that hasn\'t learned that it has died
The rationalization of its finite existence sinks in with every consequence
Deigned the right of its privacy.
In a violation of its own volition, this thing inquires
What it already knows
Seeking reproach for the sake of recollection
With no collection of rudimentary qualities within which it persists.
Memory so opaque that it has crystallized
Forms a habitat and sustenance, gaining posture as it feeds
Blood letting as it soaks in the remnants of differential retrieve.
Emaciated with repetition; static sentimental had borne
Easing its way over crests meant to subdue it
And it is pierced, penetrated - trapped in its own juices
With every malicious defect meant to misconstrue.
This thorn seems to switch places every time I itch.