Identity has no attachment
                          Where from
It is held down as a constant
                          To cover the years

   Identity is suggestive
Fluid in our perception
                As an ice cube
     Between your palms
                        Dissolves
     To slip through your fingers

Dear Diary

                     It’s not my fault

It’s easy to render
Myself a victim
Driven by consequence
                                    
Accountability
Sheds daily
                    Like skin
It silently falls

Perhaps I shall erase
My cuttings of
                    Foregone conclusions

They surround a
Diary full of days
Each encircled
                    By failure of others

To that which is felt
                        Heard
                        Seen
                        Anticipated
                        
The chord within a Hammer Horror
Scored in a “diminished fifth”
Which
When conducted
Emits a frequency that
                             Walks through walls