Erasure dalliances leave rubber shavings
across my empty plate.
I may still eat but the taste is flat
as wilting fingers won't dance.
Spark and flame are drenched in shame
spelled like craters from history.
Rivulets jump from sense to smell
hearkening colors: return from hell.
Shock went neutral in the last analysis
entreated by hiding and cave-bound paralysis.
Denial rubs out forgetting to cover its lacks.
Life on napping's edge sits and peers up a cliff;
how did I get here was relevant when vertigo
trembled across ready shoulders.
While this third person potato sack self
waits to be peeled and boiled, smashed and bettered.
Roman Ryan 