Opus

They

Their smiles are sculpted
outlined white-paper faces
they know what to say
they have static words printed
in acidic machine-ink.

Their typewriters conjure unholy
hymns in so many sentences
abstractions conjunctions
and template contradictions in
ice white rooms as frozen as their
hearts their blood doesn't move in
their veins they are stationary and
no warmth escapes.

When night comes
in white light fluorescent clarity,
they whisper about us.

They are frightened.
They are frightened, of
the red rivers running through
the landscape of our wasting bodies,
they call us animals
of the plague.
Our animal eyes glow
in the dark like fireflies, like
stars and sometimes even neon.
We watch and we wait.

When time comes,
we will rise
in all the colours of the
undying sun and
there shall be light.