Transitional Object

Paintings in the memory depot of all that is not me,
I build myself in piece by pieces from what I’ll never be,
And if I was unborn again and fell to Eden’s trap,
I’d play for the dead-stop again till I could find time on the map.
Embracing the never-ness of it all; I plot my new-nowheres,
To notarize a metaphysic of reality to butcher mankind’s affairs,
And crawl out of these theological slums to the science of the soul,
To put the acts of ages aching into my unknown role.
Conceptualizing the moment and imagining the enemy,
Within my own barbaric infrastructure I’m desperate to be free,
When your authority lies in its resolution of dust,
Over your petty bones I will slake this spiritual lust.