Do something.
A poor man set alight in an effort of cleanliness.
I watch from afar.
Listening, they state unto him
‘You’re in *****’, at the crushed elbow
Ohmless without the socket to connect to
reality, or the inner workings.

In his last moments he sees his brainless actions,
judged into legislature, written onto empty white sheets
by comfortable people, richly controlling his money,
carving ink into his bones.

There is a fog in front of his face.
Bone piles engulfed around, at once me being thankful
for his suffering to be enveloped in warmth
And wrapped in more and more metallic sheets.
He barely grasps the burns underneath exhaustion,
drugged from the fumes of proto-grief.
How arrogant he is to file guilt for the guilty.

There he sits whilst skeletons burn him alive.
God seemingly absent, or late to the party.

The breath of death,
a fog on all cracked lenses,
still yet to be cleaned.