I am sweeping the floor robotically, as my head has drifted some place very far away. I am in a long grey steel floored room and there are judges here, looking down on me. They wear stiff grey suits and I cannot see their faces, for they cast their shadows at will.

They bring their hammers down, and meld the darkness to fit my form, obscuring me from their view. The deem me valueless, consequence less -they blacklist me- they throw me out of the light, and so by day I am the crack in the sidewalk from which no weeds grow, the lame stray dog in the alleyway where the iron fire escape punctures the cement slab. I am a stain on velvet, texture not color, only detectable when I obstruct a treasured , and I am there regarded with the disgust reserved for the spilled guts of frogs mangled by lawn mower blades.

They cannot see me and I cannot see me. I cannot see a place to wash off this black oil paint off my hands and face, for all stars that once shined for me died long ago. Even in space, they are but cold little orbs of gasoline, and so all the places they show me are vacant, dry, dead.

I stagger towards mirages of springs and wells and I am greeted with glacial ice. I aim for forest and find only fallen trees. I travel from city to city; unwelcome. Stumbling aimlessly through the streets with pens and papers and a vague sense of having a name -now forgotten- a name needless for an entity that is nothing more than a speck.



If there is a god or saint for those who sinned in being born, please do pray to them for me. 

Though, I don’t think they would help me. Would you? Could you please save me now? You shouldn’t play it off too kindly. Stray dogs eventually die anyway.

They should have shot me the moment I opened my eyes.