Communion

I dream empty, the wind blowing benzene blue. Shards of glass. Barbed wire. Bricks crushing flame into notions gone quick, never painless. Is it my blood? In my eyes. On my hands. Is it for you? I'm not sure where I'm walking here. Walking towards what from. Is it supposed to be like this? I don't think so, don't imagine it so, but the windows are still dirty, and I wonder: Will it ever end? The self? The fixation? A fool, I persist. In error, I'm afraid. The sketches made of the straight bend the line. 

I react. Patient.

I recede. Longing.

I am, therefor, benign.