Daily

Every damn day, they hound me. They turn around in seconds; no moment is safe. There's no crime or cosmic injustice behind them; they simply are. I can't explain them to you. They sing only for me. I try to capture them in words and verses, but their patterns remain puzzles to everyone else. From Legion to lycanthropy to teenage angst to psychiatric diagnosis, they remain the same. Your reactions changed, but your understanding hasn't. Some of the burn is out of the Auto Da Fe, but that's why we have suicide by cop. Authority must engage us at some point, most of the trouble is in deciding where. I'm bitter about my driver's license, but it's better than inhaling smoke to avoid the worst horrors of an Act Of Faith. Some days are better than others, but every night leaves me more confused: how much of them is in me? How much of me is gone? Those are two questions that don't deserve answers, but I know I change. Sometimes, all I can hear is the laughter of the people I've loved, stronger every day in my ear, but not in the air.