the poets gather

in the black.

faces still, pressed through

the fabric of flat space,

like electronic,

looking inside the layers,

ghosts tapping symbols,

outcasts using each other

for floatation, for rescue

at the crossroads

where blood doubles as water,

we drink until the world turns

red with clarity,

our twisted eyes see clear

that we are alone

no longer.

A stranger to myself, 

only a stranger to all,

as insignificant as me

in a sea of me's, after-all.

-M.E.