A winding path spirals into crumbling trees through the woods 
where every leaf covers a trap and every water drop fades
into the piercing air we gasp for to try to rid our lungs
of the black ink we always effortfully take in
as if we're drawing a picture we think will be seen
after a day of looking into a fire that never got warm 

With a machine for a heart, I quickly learned the privilege of an off switch.