Every Last Drop

Dystopian Story

There's panic in his eyes.

When he speaks, pleasant lies are woven in like lace,

trying to comfort you, put on a brave face,

or maybe he doesn't realize

how badly you're wounded.

Maybe he's in denial.

"You'll be OK," he keeps saying, but you know you won't make it. 

You reach out your hand, and he takes it.

His piercing blue eyes take you back

to days of sirens sounding,

running through the halls, heart pounding,

finally escaping your captors. 

You were wide-eyed and amazed 

at having survived another chapter.

Those were the days, you think,

Back when we thought we'd make it out alive.

This is your dystopian story.

Your tragic fate apart of a larger allegory,

A lamp in the dead of night, warning

of a future not so distant,

a place we may wake up one morning,

but will anyone listen?

Or was every word written in vain?

Will it all still play out the same?

You look down at the gash in your side.

Scarlet soaks into the sand and drains back into sea,

back towards the cage that you spent countless hours in, wishing to be free,

desperate to see past the world outside the walls a hundred meters high.

"Just focus on breathing," 

He says and applies pressure with a cloth.

Your blood dyes it crimson in seconds.

You see beauty in it that's not there.

You laugh deliriously.

He stares.

Life is slipping,

You can feel the ebb of the waves,

the very fabric of you ripping,

pulling away. 

The sun shines.

You squint at the glare.

You ask on your dying breath, 

"There never was a way out, was there?"