Denizens of Self

               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.