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Lights in the fog

Lights in the early morning fog, 
antenna to proximity of souls. 
Selfsame I try every night to shut-eye out, 
ward them all off. 

As it lifts they will be thrust
in my face again. 

Look for choices, 
avoidance somehow. 

Sandpaper won't rub them off, 
encroach they will on
personal space. 

I cast too wide, where I sit me down. 
No desire to be people
in people's minds. 
I plead, keep me out, 
distant. 
Not in any thought. 

They are on the roads they build. 
Scurrying about the jobs they create. 
Stirring in the homes they make 

Defying any stillness. 

Stimulus those lights in the fog, 
contrary to the blanket of dark

Pillage the last quiet, 
they will invade with sound. 

I work on a subterranean dig. 
Dream-weaver weave inward scapes 
whilst they shoulder edge past up above. 

Subterfuge to keep at bay. 
Tell them that I lucidate, 
wakeful dreams. 
Call it my work or job. 

It is this skin I wear, always
itching and seeking retreat. 
These ears, inverted horns blaring 
at all times. 
These eyes landing on faces I can't read, 
they all read mine. 
These olfactory glands get no rest 
from everybody's scented rushing past. 

The only connection this last sense, 
my tongue feeding 
the gut. 

All those lights in the early fog connive
such that i need them
to feed. 

An imposed connection to my fellow (hu)men, their deed