Cower and kiss the bent knees.
Hug them close, find reprieve —
the closest inkling of warmth
by the cold sulfur springs.

Clench the keys to guard the soul
as the skin hardens with stone.
The wafts of fumes asphyxiate;
and sobbing turned to coal.

The temples throb in rhythm,
pictures a mere stiff necktie.
I lull and sigh in compliance,
as I bleed out and dry.