There are no more straws to clutch at
This coffin has turned to mud
My shoes are full of sharp fish bones
My hair a barbed-wire flood
The sides collapse
my scrabbling claws
I bite my tongue
it tastes of nothing
my teeth grind yellow
against hope’s black flies
I am the corpse of the idea
of a man of a man
I am a spectre
of self-told lies

newly discovered particles are heading the wrong way and to reconcile their existence we need a backwards, anti matter kind of universe. or maybe just a better lens.