It runs amok inside my skull—
strutting arrogant, sure I'm dead.
It sneers when I reach for calm,
feeds on the static spill of thought.

It bleeds my eyes with morning news,
howls through the blue‑lit rooms,
reduces speech to chattered cue,
swells like bile up the throat of sleep.

We keep still, biding our time,
soaking in trumpet and slime—
each day the same counterfeit grace,
each night the voice we can’t erase.