Puce
Slow, light, interred
She slips in and out of vision
A room, with curtains, a hint of cinnamon
Then loss, haze, heat behind eyes
Rage-worn weakness
A hand, full of the life blood
Her body so needs
Rest, it says, as it moves toward her
Mouth, though she is sure she lacks
The strength to scream
Slowly, with the euphoria that comes with
A final relaxation
She rolls back and allows
The haze, the cinnamon, the heat, the death
Engulf her soul
Machines
crank. crank. crank.
like bones in my wake
as I walk through this deserted party
noise, noise and mechanical laughter
of which I will never be a part
none of my days matter, for theirs
are eternal until they break and I
fulfill my duties and fix them
I live for their immortality
and then I live to die
an axe at the door behind glass for fire
I smash it, yelling, grab the handle
hurl it at the metallic faceless
nightmare that surrounds me
the blade clangs off and echoes, merging
with that eternal crank. crank. crank.
convulsing, i weep
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