Dusty old and gray
Always either spinning or perfectly still
It creaks when it spins
Like the bones of an elderly woman  
One bulb is almost burnt out flickering on and off
Wanting the motivation to stay alive but losing it anyway
Losing it,
Losing it,
and now this bulb has run out of light
Now encompassed in darkness
Two bulbs remain shining so luminously Optimistic like they’ll never burn out
unknowing the impending darkness to come
that they are unable to pause
unable to slow
unable to stop
I’ve never seen a ceiling fan and it’s bulbs like this before

I feel as though I am a slave to destruction, knees nailed to rickety floorboards that creak against creation. I am head bowed, pleading for pleasure against the cacophony of the ******, washing white floors with grime. I am the harbinger of ends, an omen of unhappiness. I am question marks, red streaks, spilled coffee on loved words. I am torment, tormented by the ways I’ve been tormenting the things I love. I am oceans inviting and striking with no warning, hurricanes gently shaking before swallowing and devastating, promise land offering refuge and whiting out identities because nobody gets to be free. I am shackled to remorse, self hatred, anxiety. A prisoner of pain, daughter of broken glass, born in spider breaks, marked by shards and splinters. I am the whisper of ruin rattled through crows calling home across worlds and realms. I am jutted bones cutting into flesh collecting blood for breakfast and sorrow for supper, feeding famine to families I am familiarly unfamiliar with. I am cast away, fallen angel, victim to the rise of hope and sequestered from safety. Left to forage fight in fields long forgotten, to discover decades of indecency and be punished by punishing the lucky ones. The thinned wrist souls slipping from restraints, to make commodity of clear consciouses, and deliver doom promised by our ancestors. I am an agent of misery, a companion of karma, nothing more than a slave to destruction.

I chant the right incantation
With a little inflection at the end,
So why can’t I ascend?
Am I doomed to this stagnation?
And the wrong spirit offend?

I sat alone
the train car bouncing
and saw the flash of red

Perhaps if not
I might just be
Going out of my head

However it's true
the crimson blaze
that was set before my eyes

I watched the world
get burned to ash
yet I don't feel surprised

This dreading feel
That pours within
from the depths of my soul

Takes me o'er
And leads my out
assuming all control

As horsemen clad
In various garb
pour from within the flame

I hear a voice
call out to me
so violent and yet so plain

The voice tells me
That I must run
lest I face my doom

Still i'm enticed
To further on
into the smoky fumes

I fall to the ground
my head on the dirt
body and mind both numb

You see my love
the horsemen sang
the end has already come

you know how brittle and thin
the bones of a fried chicken look
after you have bit them bare
and licked them clean
imagine bones like that
bulging beneath the skin
of a seven-year-old girl
who is only still alive because she
unlike forty of her brothers and sisters
was not on the school bus
destroyed the other day
by an expensive star-spangled bomb

her lips look like
they haven’t laughed in years
her skin lame as waxpaper
what might have glowed once
in the bright of Yemen’s sun
is left instead to sag in agony
from those sinless unfed bones

while she goes to sleep
for the final time
a tycoon somewhere
eats well and rests easy
on the dollars that bought
the bombs
not really knowing
the price that has been paid

There's that lingering tension
Think this restriction's commissioned
Feel that strong impending doom
Coming for us on a mission
Some of us shrug it all off
And other's bulk up and guard
Can't decide what we should do
But we know we cannot charge
Are we to wait for defeat
Will we have some type of chance
Or should we just go retreat
This isn't our type of dance
This feeling doesn't feel right
As if the world might explode
Yet for some reason, I grin
Who knows what the future holds