Emperor Arcana Freshness

It looks like body (hair) shame.

Smells of the slight body odor in the sheets after too much sleep.

Sounds like a pair of splitting accusations spinning as atoms in orbit.

Feels like rugged follicles, piecemeal nail beds, and digesting a french braid.

Tastes of stale tobacco, tesian ale, almond shells and memories of northern salt. Each crunch: another pang to the gut. 

The only thing that makes it all not matter: my babies, my buds, my bud & pride in my work creative or capitalist.

A sigh of relief recorded on each bank statement, and a reminder that patches of red bleed insanity on my character.

Fixed only with an affordable bag of disposable razors.

In time, and with courage, maybe I'll appear insane because of some eye shadow.