Clad in black and late for the wake    With the propellers in the airyard twirling    You lay a dried bouquet    in close by the cold face       The rester looks up under you.    Because it’s apparent you consider them the only one in the room .    Strike off the blinders from thine eyes.    How small does the dove feel after all?       A comic strip stripped of it's illustrations.    A grandiose work of literature missing the ink from it's pages.       Autism grows a hole so anomalous.    In the ditch in my stomach where the seeds of aphagia were sown.    Scissor blades stay at a chill.    Long after they're removed from the flesh housing the veins of pills.       What makes me want to shake out a portion. Off the hiding spaces so secret, overgrown? Don't damn the madness surrounding the myth.    Because I am the mound it's insects have built.       And while it's said that elephants never forget, Insects cannot be erased.