I cannot go any further within.
It seems, my senses talk about me
behind my back
and snicker into double positives
that I can vacantly hear
but only in a fleeting way
as the front end of words
with no last syllables to me.
They give disinterested responses
to my searching and pleas.
If I am near the engine room,
the droning is the heartless silence
of a massive chasm
between two deafening beats.
They are a collision inside me.
Some parts numbing,
some parts pulsing,
parts scattered,
as I inwardly view this disarray.
Order is futile.
Ordering is babble.
The only conversation
that justifies itself
is in response
to others' near by in proximity.
I am out of range
of familiarity's calming claim.
Drowning in sideswipes of sorrow,
my sense of self is undertow.
I am here as down stream
somehow already.
All these answers
I have ever asked for,
stomp over me in a rambling
before recognition
then start running away.
I see clearly
that my fading focus
is vague to start with.
No, I didn't get the license.
No I don't have a license.
All the Kleenex is already wet
still unfolded, dripping in the box
yet I am carried along
by a superfluous of angels.
They have thorns on their wings
and stay out of my flailing reach.
They speak about me
but always keep looking away.
Who of me,
is at gut of these feelings?
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