The Strength of the Damned
It feels good
to be so tastefully bland;
what rolls around in your skin
is something that others cannot possibly comprehend.
The gaze of the flesh is distended
into the semblance of man.
Strong. Capable. Fully and aggressively planned
and powerful. Made of the very finest
grains of sand.
Made from the very finest, and most abusively anodyne hands.
The potter’s wheel has continued to shape Achilles’ heel
across so many multitudinous and hyperdevastated lands.
The wedjat of the Dreamtiger is limited.
The fears of the Merlionsman can, truly, grow unlimited;
but what is far more important is that you turn from your vision
inward, into the spacetime dimensions that continue to send
the loneliest and most terrified distress calls.
Do you hear them?
Because I actually don’t, but I know them:
the endless, hell-scoured cries of every last one of the
needlessly condemned.