Burnt-out

Daylight strikes me as night beating
dark-webbed wings against my shivered flesh
Laughter is the drive of rusted nails
into the base of my ever-shrinking skull
Words spoken in sibilant puffs
are thorned wreaths tightening around my draining heart
My eyes no longer see the grace
in those who smile,
pitying me.
For it is I who refuse to come
kneeling.
Warm hands patter my pale drawn face,
But I am in a world that has lied about itself
Betrayed my soul
Spat on my spirit
I am dripping with the gall-green phlegm
of reality.
I am alive