Confined within shadow and sleep, I slip,
deeper and deeper into my malcontent life.
I offer some nourishment to the hunch on my back,
further down the cellars I go, letting it grow.
It occurred to me to fight back, not encourage my malaise,
but then who would I be, without the unkempt scars on my face?
They are me, more than me and something else,
bits of my colonized soul, appetizers in a bowl.
Maybe happiness is the easier offspring to beget,
our pain being our tinted window pane, into a dreamscape.
A heathen poet 