He wrote in the third person to escape himself
as he lay folded up in despair like dirty laundry
unequipped, questioning his worth in salt
traded for a 10 pound block, scraped from mines
a virgin sailor, he course drifting
wood patterns in doors look too menacing
and a bad cold he can't shake
shivering in his chest, a pent up cough
he imagines his breath turning liquid
a tide of whitecaps crashing
sounds like a toy helicopter
high pitched and desperate
hung like a devious smile
dickens couldn't create a better wretch
but a vibration wakens his puddle
a dump truck picks up, muscles contract
seared like a sunburnt back
an orphaned dream, cast off in waking
written down, now a testament.