Untitled Poem 1

It is silver and still.

The strike and blue is instant.

No sound, just a brilliant flash.

It hits her skin.

The white scars breach and break into a million branches.

She is still.

I hear the music now.

It is sweet and broken.

The air is bitter and tests like crumbling flesh.

An odd piano and the cold air.

And so they dance as they’ve danced before.

Not with fire or warmth – no.

Like gears. Mathematical and timely.

In a moment it is gone

The light is piercing,

and he untangles himself from her.

It is black and blue.

Blue and purple.

The dance moves away.

All at once out of nothing it is Scarlet.

Just a squeeze.

The air becomes firey.

It is sweet electric and cold gears.

A bitter taste and an exciting jolt.

So it repeats.

And on and on,

until the uncomfortable shift becomes still.

An old-timey song.

How long will it play?

Eventually, everything will be still just as it once was.

Just as monotone as always and deafeningly silent.