The cold, metal table,
Tools at bottom,
Along with a drain.
Another cold object lies on top of the table.
Everything is still except for I.
The silence is both magnificent and intimidating.
A needle is pricked,
The drain is filled with a thick, red substance.
Four minutes have been taken.
The incision is made.
Along with another and another carefully placed.
This is for the brave,
You must have a sound stomach.
Everything is removed.
The object is throughly examined,
The cause of the effect is found.
The object is moved away,
Onto another cold, dark table.
The first table is cleaned.
The lights are dimmed.
I and the table are ready again.
YOU ARE READING
Last Night
PoésieDark poem collection from the span of a few years, slowly editing the early ones. The later ones are pretty good. Don't be afraid to give feedback. Please read, vote, and comment!
