it’s a bit of a wicked monstrosity
a skinned-down canvas
lines drawn onto surfaces where they dont belong
ticking
a cocktail of poison
catharsis to your bloodstream
ticking
but the clock strikes 6 in the morning
and your limbs still tango to a pool of stoic
how do you sharpen your teeth?

there’s a corridor
with red-slippered footsteps
and echoed voices
and healing that sounds like a last man’s meal
the merry-go round stops.
cuffs nowhere in sight
but every move makes the shackles clang
ticking
there’s a palm tree view on a wall
a silhouette of the grand scheme of things—
an archive of the unspoken.

perhaps we’re all just flickering lights
and passerbys
on an unending roundabout.
one day she’ll see that palm tree again.
one day, maybe not.