No matter how clear the terrestrial sky,
the psych-ward forecasts fog.
A chemical grayness that impedes light
from occupying patient eyes.
A film that coats tongues, stuffs noses,
and withdraws fingertips from sensation.
Barbarians in three-piece suits
maintain a comfortable spyglass distance
that speaks for their wary tongues
You are not human.
The midnight hallway prowlers
halt their journey at large lounge windows,
search the sky for constellations and spiritual guidance,
but someone rearranged the stars.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney