Compounding deceptions disguise old tracks as they overlap, memory’s faults, growing in layers. 

Deeper I tread, cleaving through rooms until they 

writhe together. They bleed together. 

Wounds become walls, 

the ouroboros 

self-inflicts, 

thoughts 

  

stop, 

 

drain, 

canvass 

endlessly. 

At the center of 
too similar infinities, 
crystal seas run caustic with chronic lies. My truth died 
mapping those dead ends, my faith dead with my head held under. Oddly, I still crave that touch.