oh broken sun,
how your bright
and garish light
bears all in introspection,
our weary sight
so much disturbed
by our own imperfections
(and in the dark
we lurk like sharks
fed by our own dissection)
these parts of me,
unrecognized,
must surely be
the food of flies
for I no longer feel the sting
their soulful bleeding ought to bring
drip down,
lost thoughts
and recollections
spilling to the thirsty floor
as though
the memories are no more -
but i am still a timid child
behind an angry door.
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