Neither Leper nor God
I live one night
and not another.
The chemicals are shifting constantly.
Changing so fast that,
you see, I can't tell you what I am,
only what I am not.
I am neither leper nor god.
Not true, but grown in ill
—although seemingly healthy—
fitting minds.
I am mortal,
liable to fall.
I can't reach the poles.
Or, I can, but I don't want to.
It's just easier to lie
and say I can't.
I am neither leper nor god.
Not built, but spawned of good
—although entirely false—
intentions.
I don't know it.
That's the answer.
I want to be humble
enough to hear his voice
rip through my brain,
but he won't let it.
I am neither leper nor god.
Not dead, but just alive
—although not really breathing—
from habit.