D.I.D. – a poem

D.I.D.

*

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.

*

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