What is it that lives in my mind?
a susurrous, humming twig.
Detached to be detached further.
My mind quarrels,
with numbers, duplex nocturnal facets.
It's happening all over again.
A quiet place to rest is often a hidden door,
a hidden door like a skin of mirrors.
Crackling noises that run into my blood,
making it thick, making it think.
What is it that eats me up each day?
Like a parasite, a lost point of solitude.
What is it that sits and stares at my knuckles,
your mind counting numbers, still.
What is it?