The people here are like voids.
Pushing strange machines with
Coiled wires
On the frontline.
They know not of normalcy.
The ruins behind them
Scream like a terrible newborn
And stop, their voice chords touching
Like cave-ins
On the streets touch when they are
Untended, by fear of
mixing households.
The smell of burn can be bread
Or the alignment of
Spikes and flesh, splayed like an
Entanglement of blackness.
Tarantulas, at best.
I am with an unhappy
Title,
The fat Governor has
Unloaded them on us all,
Round his baby pinky
Has me he, like the coiled
Wires inside cannons drawn aloft.
I am a pawn.
My commander spouts me
An order, I believe.
Embers are simply gorgeous
All around, snowing heat.
It is then that feet
Like the eyes of my peers
Go cold.
