Charisma in a Machine

death

Grips slowly

A slow whimper of your lover

A deep breath you cover up, that shudders under a cloud of tears

Black eyes that tumble over

The moon in a green acre valley of memory.

Death grips quickly

Hours go by,

In tears of your mother’s embrace,

Years drive away

In a screeching halt of smoking (acrid burnt smoke)hot bleeding metal

That tasted like hot gashed up

Yellow Alkaline.

You were charisma

Mashed up in a machine

A ghost tumbling in a woody, exhausting room,

Peeking through the woodwork

To pay your dues

At the last moment

Whispering for someone

Else irrelevant

To eat the bill.