22 is an odd number.
I am a newborn child,
Shiny and wet –
Looking at the world
with bright, glowing eyes.
Just come from the womb,
Still warm from my
mother’s arms.
Wholly, disastrously
fascinated
By everything on which
I feast my fresh, dewy eyes.
I see fire.
I touch it.
What is that bleak, shadowy being that keeps following me?
How does it mimic
exactly what I do?
The future is a white, ethereal
thing
Without eyes.
It perches on the edge
of the world and
Twists its feeble hands.
It sings a faint,
lonely melody
That few can hear.
But I hear it.
I think it’s singing my
name, but maybe, wait –
I’m wrong.
22 is a weird number.
And I’m crushed under
the weight of it.
