Slipping In To Some Kind Of Skin

I am young, I am bored,
black locusts are in bloom,
the sun is high, my peers are laughing,
I am locked, alone, in my room,
the last scion of a crumbled empire.
I am a wanderer in my mind,
I am a philosopher in my own way –
seeking answers impossible to find.
Most things I do anymore
are error-prone repetitions,
reading the same books as before,
dreaming in incorrect positions.
I am not the first in this place,
I will not be the last,
desperate to escape,
too numb to leave,
clinging to my books,
and to the past.

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