There is a knife
deep in the engine that
pumps my blood
My heart
it's own destructive
beats the rhythm of loss
I peer into the mirror to find
a distortion
of my own image
My eyes float around the room
like two ships lost on the sea
and I know
the exact measure
of my captivity
This pain has an operatic grandeur
Smoky circles of thought
attempt to combat the fog
and seek out
my polestar
I will not be placated, by the mechanical motions
of existence
as all around me are
criminally irrelevant
My hands are nailed, one
to love
and the other,
to pity
I wanted you-
you are the one I picked in the world
But still, you hover around
your murder
And I cannot call you to
finish the kill
but neither
can I revive you.
You are not here.
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