cylinders, cold
and exact, empty, hollow
metal pills make a mess
the chimes chime in
and get stuck in their own
bearings and tethers
asphyxia, noise suppressed
soft carpeted walls at a
psychopath's apartment
the cylinders have
suffocated and died
they don't move anymore
wind doesn't do anything
to them. Their skin
smooth and cold, hard and unflinching
the dead will not sue you.
cylinders, metal jacket
a warzone, the ash and fire
reminiscent of
the cylinders choked to death
metal or not, special no one.
Their skin smooth and cold.
hard and given up
the men no longer grieve
the chime never chimes in.
YOU ARE READING
Revèuse
Poetry"Everyday we prepare a face, to face the faces we must face." TS Eliot this book will never end, it's a way for me to keep pieces of me safe.
