Once again I am enshrouded with that white mist,

Encompassing my vision and blurring sensation
,Like an evil trip, spiraling in all directions, howling
howling
For the dark moon;
I freeze, unable to think except in numbers, adding, adding
just
To keep it there while it lasts.

The table grows far and the salad turns unto the happy
isles next to your hand, your face.
I cannot swallow, cannot dream, cannot feel, cannot...

I am paralyzed here in this shabby light,
Crucified by your imagined glare, the steak stares back
but
No, I cannot think just yet. Adding is safe, yes. Safe.

My white shroud dissipates and I, a neonate Wight in
lunch,
Descend upon my wooden throne to swallow last supper's
remnants; a little stale, I sigh.

On an on I wait it out,
Not knowing where or who and when, I endure my tears and
music,
Consuming myself in order to live out another day, yet I do
not live in a single hour.

I crawl out of the wreckage, smiling at my lovely strange
world,
Clinging to distant hopes of past deeds, once resembling
the semblance of normalcy.
There I am one of the ignored. Here, there is only the
void.
?So who is staring back at me