swivel-spheres are every thought;
slowly starting as sudden awareness
grows a nettling. nag. flailing,
to then flay
all other senses swiftly away. executed
by a simple whimper, extruded out a shout.
this fathom of phantoms, of ghostly woes
 
extant only in one’s own seeming;
crinkles through to infect the being
(fearing seclusion, lost standing) as searing
fire, but a thing of want. dear… Resemblance
makes me less my own Monster.
And more dearly Theirs.