We lay under a hall of mirrors.
A hundred walls across us,
For hours, days, weeks
We lay there
Conscious,
Sane,
Yet unwilling to rise.
The weight of crashing sounds inside
Us -
Gravity playing no part
Other than a muted distraction,
A throat tickle.
Sickening guitars strum while
Our hearts - stone become iron
Feel nothing of it.
Steel,
Concrete,
Stone, pebbles and black tar slabs
Crush down at a glacial pace.
And each word,
Every black letter, one after the next,
Add to the ending...
Unhelpful and laughing and deceitful and,
We lay under there
A hundred years across us.
We lay there
Conscious,
Barely relevant,
Unwilling to rise.
Slow voices turn stomachs while
Our hearts – iron become ore
Feel nothing of it.
Hate,
Love, rain, snow and ash
All drifting down, as a swan feather in the
Summer breeze.
And each line,
Sentence and crying shame of the ink
Splattered page,
Grasps at throats
Claws at skin, and still
Fails to hold
On.