Yellow crashes against this
Window, shining light
On my sickly white walls.
The weighty anvil descends on me
And traps my fevered body as
Its iron cools and crushes my whimpering bones.
This is my afterlife, immortal but immobile.
I desire nothing more than a cracked rib
And snacks now and then.
But I wish the insects would leave me be.
They circle my bed like chanting savages,
Flashing their fangs and beating winged drums.
Their nauseous hum seeps inside my thoughts
As I shake my vomit filled head,
Desperate to escape.
Bleeding ears and burning body
Remind me of demons past,
Scraping their way up my throat.
I am but a humbly pure shell,
Nothing more, perhaps less,
Sentenced to sleep in an oven.