D.I.D. – a poem



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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