This began as a poem, and I’ve since re-purposed it as song lyrics:
I can’t feel the very bones holding me together,
the wobbling skeletal gel
of congealed soul-juice.
The cantankerous, sickly curvature of a face with
eyes that see too much, like a shibboleth
of the 21st Century dream.
The yellowed white sheets are made up
of burns and wounds, decomposing remains, disregarded
in the rising smoke.
Its plumes of retreat and remand.