In silence I chase the subscripts of my life, 
running them to ground - 
the smell of their spoor 
whipping the killer within me to a frenzy. 

Caught up in the alchemy of words, 
I sink my teeth into their metaphors and feed -
shrugging discrepancies aside 
like sweat swept away 
in a wash of blood 
dried and turned to dust.

I stand at the tomb of my discarded analects 
wrapping tears in stone, 
building the mask of my face for the world, 
carving similes of despair on my bones. 
Edging away from the lies of dreams 
to lie in the hovel of my nightmare truths, 
I drag bony fingers from putrid flesh 
and count the crows on the mounds of my dead.