The world flitted its eyes here and there,
but I could only eavesdrop, never interrogate.
Instead, the world rested its trajectory along
a new word: autopsy. I let my skin play dead
while all that had been me shattered.
I desperately want something fireproof.
It focused on random templates of rage
corrupted by not fitting together.
Adaptation was incitement to violence;
how many options had I missed
because the ghosts of theories strayed?

-C.S. Henderson