Oliveira in Oblivion

A silhouette is full of the uncertain, it's surrounded by a curtain

of a luminescent ragged psyche in a color-wounded field,

a discriminating haze of what you know and feel and can discern,

a self-incriminating craze, the exhalation of a smoky nuance.

The figurine is undefined, the atmosphere is made of him exploded,

his identity a mere formality, he knows about submersion in the world

his perception blending with the air, unconsciously the man's an android

and tragedy has torn the shadow of his self-respect.

Whatever's left is posing in a void, or standing in a random murk

a darkness he was born with, in the anonymity of ectoplasm,

his body occupying space, and there's a busy reflection of his presence,

a side of the person never seen, a side without a face and time erased it.

Can he stand it, the unconscious in a furious effort of osmosis

struggles to attain the anthropomorphic, and his origins are smeared,

the costume may be all he has to go on, everything is gone or going,

he wears an echo of the madness like a neurologic uniform.

Where the random and the dignified are meeting during a storm at night,

the figurine with no decision is a residue of their collision

or collusion in the background of a man who's made of their blown traces

in the air. The torn unknown has taken up its death and then it walks.