Who Will Save me From This Body That Is Subject To Death?

Sonorous nonsense driven home with gestures
which bifurcate the conferential notion of reality.
Demarcating experience into a disingenuous echo of truth –
where is the line?
Do we draw it ourselves?

Everything I know,
and everything I hold dear
is a self-induced narcotic
that structures my life
into a complex that helps me sleep at night.
(Not.)

I am not a son.
I am not a student.
I am not an employee.
I am not culture with a (capital) c –

I am not a structured
existential
coping
methodology.

I am not you –
I am not me.
I am

destined for death.

.dead.

(What else is there?)

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