Someone named Welsh
11/16 2021
Find me in every form except for myself,
Every quirk that I possess,
Find them, weaker, in someone named Welsh
Or more normal in the form of a ghost, I guess.
For what hope is there for the whip of memory?
That sees the meaning, yet forgets the rest,
What we all react to at the end of every century:
The smell of the one lying at your chest.
Another fight is nearly over, yet I forget
Who started it, or for that reason, why.
When I see them laughing again ahead
I can only laugh at the absurdity, and sigh.
The forms are melting into one large wax sculpture,
But even then the cracks are beginning to rupture.