The Residue

This film across my skin now plagues my day, Retains all the self-deprecation here, But lets me be aware of all my fear, And now allows beliefs that I'm blasé. It's true, of course, my mind begins to fray, As hands like rubber wear all that is dear: The feeling when I wish I could not hear; The sound divests the world to naught but gray. Imagine suffocation growing weak, The smoking embers, hatred's fumes, decease, You're left in empty bliss, in void, to grope, Without sufficient will of leave to seek. This film across my skin will never cease To think its residue began from soap.