You are an imperfect soul,
bound by stardust and self-image
You are a product of oblivion,
of gods,
of somebody
Nobody looks like this
and that's good for nobody
You are a reflection in a compact mirror
and the flecks of dusty rouge
scattered across you
You do not do-- because
You know only a heap of broken images
and the words of those that came before you
echoing like fickle inspiration
barraging your ears like wind
You are October in Michigan
and your hands are always cold
despite all the vodka and hot tea you provide
your clothes and your music and your body
unseasonably cold
