Frozen in Drowning Fire

I pour myself into a paper cup and

~)choke(~

on my viscous hair as it

w

r

a

p

s

its grasping entrails around my throat

I gaze

UP

into the starlight of hell beneath my feet

the bowels of the earth shining in the gloom

^above^

my head

the wonders of living are innumerable

count them, count them, count them until the end

the very

>>>>>>> end

I observe this from my grave buried deep in the furnace

the fiery ventricles of my frozen heart

pound, pound, pounding

like a halting train

and I croak my last word at the moment of my birth

......................................................................................................................

Sometimes the surreal is all you can write, in a world where surreality parades as the norm. What an absurd, artificially unintelligent species we can be.

And yet, here we are, still creating, still hoping, still yearning for that peek around, through and behind the looking glass to provide us with the answer.

It might not be the answer we want, but if we’re lucky, it will be the answer we need.