I don’t feel real, substance wayward,
The minor turned major on a coin edge,
Thus landed rather than heads, tails,
Chance and probability, just words,
Terms and tones not always understood.
This meaning of mind moves torpid,
Languishing along lines where touching
Happens across a distance, black panes
Thicker than void separate this sense
Of self from the wider world, disparate.
Detachment, realisation rallied behind
Masks and walls, barriers, normalcy
An act, rehearsing words, phrases, far
From what might occur within, a story
Told for a solipsistic idea of self.