"I lay my well-worn bones"

I lay my well-worn bones upon this bed of aether,
on the turbulent high seas of dream. The energy of life
flitting and darting through me as a bird of prey
on the hunt. A dynamic inside my psyche that
plays out like the most absurd psychodrama.
Self-awareness was gifted me—cursed me—
with the instruction manual carelessly misplaced.
I find myself in a cycle of regressive infantilization,
speaking to the disfigurements in my soul. And
what they have to say is but banal repetitions.
My speech to the external world, to proximal
beings, is twisted by the complexes of my own
insecurities. The Promethean Man is nowhere to be
found; dallying somewhere down by the hollow.
Word and action, thought and intention—imbued
with fractured colors that need reassembly.

M.M.