This foot square, this unholy heathenish latticed slab,
upon which rests so much and so little
contains my heart within its grain, and it
will not give it back.
There is a deadline on life, and mine
is fast approaching, heralded by letters and
the madness of another. What is wrong, dear?
You break me down,
you know you break me down.
I wait to leave, but this atomic delay
this half-life captured within
is too slow, too old, and I am
This iron sword, with which I inscribe
my name and fate and hopeless
misgivings, is like a shackle on my wrist,
and I cannot escape, but to live
my way through this.
Every hour intoxicates, air conditioned
not to aide, not to whisper, not to carry
a train of thought. If I could kick your chair in silence
I would, just to let you know,
there are others alive in here.
Hold on, my love.
When we are broken down, it will be over