(spiral of eyes      to a magnesium explosion   flare emerging
children holding matchsticks to the ocean
crackle of a generator popping
phantoms to the Varanasi Ghats where
a series of men hold smoke
to a blackness
and I'm holding my lungs
in front of me
and breathing using an artificial tank
gifted to me by decorated elephants
(who've long since passed away)
a film director captures my decay
and compares me to a romantic
who bled out
and was given a second chance at life
but remained empty of RED
and just EMPTY
soon the rest of this body will give
and clearly the roses remain apathetic of
this ultimatum
I lay for hours
catatonic
allowing the sensation
to finish me
before anything
else
can.










                                                 ­                                                                 ­        )