Something is said to crawl under the skin of select stimulant users,
Something adjunct to the platitude of that transient, metaphysical tonnage
Supplied by Eve’s delicious apple as it falls
From her womb, fecund, imbuing the soil of the Eden we find ourselves in,
Mouth agape,
Silent and lacking something, something,
Something subliminal, visceral,
Lurking overhead like a double consciousness that floats softly
And contains a dismal presence of ourselves,
Insatiable, yet full to the brim of every last moment cast in a black shadow
Of time we can’t believe as truth
To agonize the last waking seconds of something, something,
Something we describe as life,
Or reality in a fish bowl of transparent ether denied to be seen
And wholly realized when it drifts above the mind
We find ourselves occupying in incompetence
Without a song, limerick, or rhyme;
Instead, mouth agape,
Screaming an abyssal void into an echo
Reverberating through the walls of some fool’s history
Scribbled on a wall of limestone and seashells
To be packaged in tiny capsules of cellulose and crime.