Phases of the Insane

these amber mornings were made of discoloured highs,
buried neatly under the mapped watermark of purpose

unable to function in present tense or think in adjectives
I drowned where I slumped, under lethargic layers of white

my glassed lenses arrived wrapped in crinkled gold paper
now – I could only see in negatives and hasty shadings

oh wasted sepia mornings! veiled behind patterned blinds;
drinking zamzam water from the cupped hands of the dead

climbing the wallpaper walls, I squatted on the ceiling
watching intently as the children ate their own flesh.