An Image Of Perfection Poem by Brian Rihlmann

I call us
a botched species,
and yet
I should marvel
at my ability
to exist on dual planes,
or parallel universes:

The one in which
my eyes read,
my fingers type,
and my feet walk,
my body moving
like a perfectly programmed
worker drone on autopilot...

And the one in which
I battle phantom bullies,
shout down the voices
that pick me apart
like vultures,
and constantly plan
for nightmare scenarios
as likely as the second coming.

As though
my brain gets hijacked
by some mad scientist
pulling switches and
crossing wires,
nodding and writing
his observations
on a notepad.