My fingertips are no foreigners to the feels of a metal’s smooth surface, or how chilly it may be
my body less than shudders at the alloys instilled in me.
I wonder how a child’s hand sends vibrations of life when it’s encompassed in mine
but to feel their presence within my own anatomy takes quite a length of time.
Must the metals break, jagged and cutting through, for a sense of their presence to be found?
Must a child engulf my every sense for an acknowledgement of their whereabout?
I can’t help but wonder, helplessly, if for cognizance I must be overwhelmed.
Maybe this could, partially explain, why I’ve failed to keep things at helm.
On most days quite fine, not a care in the world
till ignorance is annihilated and I helplessly hurl
How feasible it is to convince myself: I am content
While slowly my insides are bent-
A void overwhelming I cannot ignore,
my own being I begin to abhor.
a whirlwind inside cannot be escaped,
in it’s exigence I find myself draped.
From this phenomenon I cannot hide,
neither can I attempt to put it aside.
Pristinely clear for all those who care to see,
my dictionary of being’s slowly being confined to me.