In life bundles are your identity.
Through judgment and skepticism they are sifted and swirled.
“No,” “Yes,” circulate in air like capricious ghosts pacing back and forth.
The possessor of the bundle is unknown, forced nervously into a recluse.

The bundles are a physical representation of his brain, but not his heart.
The possessor, a heartless victim, is mute.
The smoothness of his tree, the only voice.
He shouts “wolf” in desperation, but no one listens.

He wants to explain himself,
However silence lags like a faithful dog guarding his six.
If only he could add more, show them who he really is,
As he stares aimlessly into the light, his eyes grow weary.

His mind screams, an interminable sound that overpowers his thoughts.
His loved ones are trapped, bearing the brunt of the demon that possesses him.
Unable to tell reality from imagination he cannot sleep.
Thinking, thinking, what will happen.

He dreams of the golden ticket,
Knowing well he is merely a sentence in a hundred page book.
He sees only into the future because that is the only thing important to him,
As he waits like a stubborn boy in line.

“No matter what happens” follows every mumble from his pale mouth.
All he does is fantasize and squeeze himself, hoping his heart does not pop out.
He senses the Devil’s presence in him, but hopes God rewards him later.
He hopes, praying to God, that he is a stranger who is simply good on paper.