Crannies

Changers of context, that's all they are. I do not think there
because there is nothing that could help me there either. I have
searched every cranny in this white threadbare garment; I have had time
on my hands.

I lean; I am pressed against this clear solid wall, I feel its presence
while their words press into me like broken bricks.
My skin has been pulled thin and hangs lax from my face, my forehead. I
thought of a poem today. It's about how I look:

How long do you think
You can hide from
Where you are?

To get back to the house
A cunning disguise
Aged, in so little time

"She withered the fair skin
of his supple limbs and
destroyed the flaxen hair
from off his head and
about his limbs she put
the skin of an old man"
I can't help me back

It's not very good. And I can't write it down because my fingers are
broken. So its path leads to the nowhere in my skull, where things that
have been forgotten dictate what I remember, and the boxes I've kept
things in are being dissolved away and my truths are being dilluted
with lies.

Because that's what happens when you are imponed.