There is a crucible
Around my neck
Tied ever tighter
Stealing my breath away.
My imaginings
My vitality
My memory
Everything in me ephemeral
Snatched away
Until I am empty
A shell
In the midst of living, dieing
All the same
When this husk lifts its head
Eyes locked more on life than death
That moment
Carefully cultivated
Nursed with the watery milk of hope
To an indifferent strength
An acquired taste
Something to put the fight back in
That moment
Is when the flesh is finally freed from itself
And the shell falls
Cracked and broken
A waxy, battered doll
Bereft of nostalgic sentiment,
Utterly uninspiring,
A mess.
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