On the outskirts of un-reality, out of time his
hair grows, each inch a landmark of living. Eyes open
only the ghostly light of monitor bathes
his sullen body, which has sunk into the
recesses of his shattered psyche. Dead,
to all but his fellow leeches of
the utmost despairs. Who see
oceans of turmoil lurking,
hidden, beneath the dire
flesh of innocent
unliving men
mirroring
themselves
and laugh.
