I’ll not wake up, no,
swimming here in this conch shell
of a life, shadows tickling my ear,
playing house while the real
world assumes it’s won.
I’ll not confront it, no,
kicking up the remains of reality
swept under expensive furniture
when we could afford the luxury
of not caring.
I’ll remain in my head,
enveloped by this conch shell,
closed to those sounds desperate
to encroach, honking displeasure
at deaf eyes shut.
(c) 2019 Phillip Knight Scott