It’s The End Of The World [08]: The Imaginary Friend
The Imaginary Friend
pinches inside the centre of my chest
like an axial graph folded and ripped,
an extradimensional shift to shit,
cinched with the rented smile of a guest
he suspects that his greatest achievement
is unravelling the probable
cause travelling without effect
leaving life only with the introspect
the what-ifs your standard issue rejects
he perfects his wind-tunnel soft whisper
appearing almost apologetic
at his fissures dotted around reality;
each idle thought an enemy, each slit
quickening the tangled nerves around it,
each brush becomes a thicket drowning
my vision and the waterline, revising
life into a supine circle of salt.
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