stranger

planes crash down in dreams and Freud would say

it has something to do with your father.

peel the onion, never reach the core, eventually

salt blocks sight entirely.

hours, nights and days spent digging coffins up,

dried up worms and dirt underneath your fingernails...

still a stranger it remains.

a general of war, before a fortress, all angles under attack,

layers of defense remain untouched,

when dust settles in morning vapid chirp of birds

still a stranger it remains.

in mirror shards sanguine on the edges

a single eye stares back through cracks of skin

at jugular and spinal cord unrecognized,

in abissal dread you scream

"still a stranger i remain."