Scraping the bowl

aware
surprised
to find that I am
riding the dragon
with brittle hands
that grip
at its scales

I am conscious, yet
my body moves
as if directed
by another
force

remotely viewing
existences
at the edge
again
as familiar to me, as
my habit

I don’t exist
I don’t exist
these aren’t my tears.

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

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