It’s always grayscale in the armory
certain places, you’d expect
pastel petri dishes, cozy spheroids in the corners

but the rules are simple.
Cold, metallic tangs
maps from who-knows-where
the sun a distant memory

gunmetal groans, crates sit
silent and dusted.
Slotted faces sit like iron maidens.

And if you come, unbidden, you won’t be chided
for furniture makes poor company
and blood needs oxygen to feed.

And what remains is hushed in stacks of gravel
in slate, a soul is nothing but
a whisper of the moors.

Elsewhere there are flowers blooming in dead flesh,
stalks of smoke, ears perked for screams and order.
And all to life will be what’s known
and all that’s left be terminal.

So those who climb the crates, agitate ropes
spill a canister or two of *** and gasoline,
Those who know nothing caught in silent plumes
Eyes glazing with electricity.
These partial titans, had they much to say
would pour through yawning maws seared by supernovas

When you lose the fire it’s easy to forget it.
The earth stinks of iron, and feet tip away
on weather balloons.

In the corner lies a broken man
on his limbs lie tire tracks of hemp
for only living can undo the living.