I woke up with the words

Corpuscular, vicarious

In my head.

And there I was again

Teetering on a precipice;

cat walk; artificial reality.

I had dreamed of

art school

A minute globular particle

A lymph cell in the

sea of creativity

swimming with vitality

I served, instead, for

my aunt, who wished

She was me; sixteen.

Hiding my identity

as a conduit of art

now a clothes hangar.

I walked along the cat walk

My flesh creeping

From eyes looking at my body; not my soul

I was a cattle market cow

whose skeleton served

To show her meat.

The bidders’ eyes were at

The level of my feet

I will do this no more

I cried in my mind

walking the walk of

an automaton outwardly.

Why am I your

vicarious thrill?

Subconcious revelation.