if a man should go out looking for himself
would he search inside the kitchen shelf
inside a frothy bottle robbed of its waters
or in the pockets of his pissed trousers
see, the man’s ears are itching for his voice
over the cacophony of humanity’s noise
should he wear earphones made from steel
climb a mountain or burrow under a hill?
ah, the man spends an hour before a mirror
lost, quivering, filled with untold horror
if he asks the image “please who are you”
will he know the reflection fears him too?
should the man seek escape – from nothing
choosing the comfort of rope and ceiling
would we mock, when we see his dead eyes
or offer our bit of kind, posthumous lies
what if that man appeared here writing this
would you show him the short path to bliss?
