Poetry

Discombobulate

The fog looms behind my eyes threatening

to seep out if I widen them enough.

Yet my eyes aren’t wide at all, they’re half

closed, eyelids sinking low despite the overwhelming

rushes of air, clinking of keys, feet shuffling

a little too close and perfume forcing its way up my nostrils.

I can feel my body one moment, and in the next

it’s lost, disconnected and I’m a floating head.

A floating head with a parroting voice, a mimic,

a copycat of everything, even emotions.

Not that I don’t feel my own. Mine just won’t display.

Poetry

The Unknown

They polished the scaled armour with orange peel every evening. The citrus scent repelling the taste of blood and earth residing in each crease. The overlapping plates fish-like, never one colour for more than a moment. Inside, the body was still human. Just. It preferred oranges to iron, whatever its brain might say.