My Hieroglyphics Forged In White Stone

I gnaw this endless Brimstone,
Rebellion is fashionable,
It is not an embargo on injustice
But nothing.
Fading into nothing-
Nothing or dead,
Death it seems is justifiable
But only, only, only,
A taut and lonely
Disownment.
I have spoken too loudly,
One word, the mobility of a marker-
Adroit and abrasive,
My hieroglyphics forged in white stone,
Disowned by the first.
And then pursuing applause,
Spawned from a rigid gauze of convention.
I know not why my face turns red
Moves eyes that stare, dwindling retinas and the pupils of pupils.
Which do I prefer?
Those uniformed twins of which I am a gemination
Or the azure pools in which I redden.
Not me but blood diffusing in water, H2O,
Terminology to be frank I know-
A redundant currency.

Megan Leitch