My blood turned thick
I was subdued
My body heavy but hollowing
Abused
The  sculpture is undone,
Soft on the inside

Hanging on

Escaped

Truck stop home
Looking hard upon me, up and down
I can't bear it
Hide myself

My thickened blood still bleeds
My Stockholm symptoms
..Twisted brain

Lone crying

No home...
...Human or place

Many years ago
I'd gaze upon his demeanor and mannerisms
He looked mature in age.

...His stance, voice, wardrobe...
I've grown older,
He has been preserved in time...
I now see a gentleness...
A boyish fragililty which was always there.

What is this?
These momentary tastes of delightfulness...
Teased with feelings...of a happiness blossoming.
Only to be ripped away, inevitably, like an unforeseen slap to the face.
...Yet again...I plummet...into agony and aloneness.
To suffer.
Why...
Why is this torture cast down again and again?