The rude, impending pressure
of those you no longer see,
they protrude a sound of snares
and horrible laughter.
One files themselves under the
category of "non-existent" and
"worthless" because the trial in
ones mind is on-going.
This worthless person with a mind
illustrated to you previous to the sentence
is the author of this poem now.
The mystery is gone.
Is this no longer a poem?