Supported by a hook and a painful glare,
My tendons ache, digits degraded, depleted,
Yet tension pulls at me from thin air,
As my muscles and chassis sputter, defeated.
Confined to the line, confined to the chair,
Defying that which envelopes my bones,
Disconnect the mind, the eye that stares,
My domain is one of peaceful undertones.
Despite that awful horn, which blares,
I form the courage from nothing, yet defy
My own teeth, clacking in calcified pairs.
Not of fear, but of spirit I cannot rely
Upon in times of need, despite my disrepair.
The head grows weary, no longer mine to use.
Such feelings do elicit quite a scare,
Reduced, my self-agency, to not but a muse.
And, time passing, I find my mind quite bare.
A comforting truth, to say the very least.
Much preferable to the dangerous dares,
That tempt the dreaded claws of the beast.