The Urban Elf

My best words are lost
to the fetid haze of nothing
but drunken self-revery.
The internal monologue
flying free unto nowhere
unheard
unnoticed
unseen.
No page and pen,
no hard drive or web link,
no record
no reason
no point.
What use is the gut spilling,
eloquent or wise?
What repercussion or back blast
waits
in its time
to despoil any outcome
avoided and cursed?
I am disturbingly content
to vamp in the wings,
aspiring to some unfullfillable goal.
But I will not
be challenged.
Indeed
it’s a flaw in my person
that ego allows delusion
to be succor,
but challenge
I can not abide.
No matter the source
no matter the nature
it maddens and poisons
at my basest of levels.
And when
it is the same war
the same shameful failure,
I cannot by reason
blame anyone but myself.
It is a conspiracy of fate
of genetics and of karma.
It is the terror for which I am here.
And I will bleed
and I will scream
until the hollows of my skull
echo with the rage storm
of frustration
and pain.
I am not
again,
and I won’t be
in this time,
nor do I wish to be,
but I cannot help thinking
were there just that
chromosome’s difference,
for once,
for once,
for just
once,
for once
it could have been me.