Moldy Orange

Welcome back to the shits.
Life is as colorful as the cold grits
In your cracked porcelain bowl.
Every shirt has a stain.
Every window has a smear.
Every day is no more near
Normalcy.

How you used to hold it dear.
Now you fear the judgments of every day:
The letters, the voices, the tactile display.
You're checking your pulse
Before the phrases you say
Change the way the matter stands.
Delirious,
Delusional with the sight of open hands.
Out of tangles of strands of mismatched hair
Or defeat in the plainness of palms open-aired?

So with a charged exchange,
We've come back to the base,
Stripped off layers caked
To the same pretty face.
With the same ugly scar
That cut down far,
Too deep.

It was a strike too much,
That came all too soon,
From burning my eyes under citrus moon.