Exit Does Not Exist

Caress away the pain

Smooth out the ruffled confusion

Ease the ache from the toll

Paid at the entrance

 

Our vagabond fails to notice

This unconscious act

Even as it takes place

 

He is too unsettled to notice

The actions of his thumb

 

The environment he finds himself in

With the synthesized occupants

Acting out life as we know it

Leaves him too disturbed to do anything

Other than stare in confusion

 

Following his aimless feet

As they seek the end

The back wall

Something alive

 

But the farther he goes the more

This charade continues

 

City hall with plastic people in suits

A hospital with plastic patients

A city center full of falsities

The hustle and bustle frozen in place

 

Street lights change

TV’s flicker

But nothing here is

Alive

 

Except for our vagabond

 

After what seems an eternity

His street dead ends into

A cinderblock wall

Painted to look like the county side

 

The road continues

To wind through the

Green rolling hills

Towards the horizon

 

He stops the mindless caressing

To place an open hand on the spot

Where the road disappears into the sun

For the first time he thinks

He may have made a mistake coming here

 

He decides perhaps he should have left this

Dreary existence entirely

Instead of seeking sanctuary

For a price

 

As he turns to trace his way to the exit

Something strikes him

Something is wrong

 

It takes him a moment to place it

To point out the change

 

They now line his street

All of the plastic people

Are side by side facing the street

With their heads pointed

Their eyes blankly staring at him

 

His thumb returns to the caressing

Only to reveal the second discovery

 

The palm

His palm was turning to plastic

 

The second price

Was spreading past the injection point

Running up his fingers

Spreading down his arm

 

In his horror he starts to run

Back the way he came

Through the sea of fake smiles

The ocean of blind eyes

 

And each of these

Mannequins seems to be coming closer

Reaching for him

Crowding his escape

 

There was stiffening

Spreading through his joints

And every movement was

Becoming less controlled

 

The feeling of the fingers

Grabbing at his clothes

Was beginning to become muted

 

He was slowly turning into one of

The plastic eyed inhabitants

 

He could see the entrance

He could hear the music

The laughter

 

Just as the fingers closed

On his slowing form

 

On the street outside people pass

The toll box and the building without notice

And inside things have returned

To the way they were

 

Plastic citizens seated in front of flickering screens

Cardboard cars parked in front of the flat house faces

The city square was filled with the unmoving

And seated on the street corner

Was a plastic vagabond

 

Holding a cardboard sign

Labeled, “Help me.”

04/22/2012

Author's Note

0714 am
As of right now this is the end of the piece. One of the things that i enjoy about poetry is the art form and the poroducts of the art form are always subject to interpritation. People respond differently to each piece and the piece reaches out to different aspects of each person prompting different understandings and realizations. This may come to life again depending on what happens with my inspiration, but i have a strange request to add to this. If you think it should continue please write a continuation, and let me know so a note can be left for the reader. I would also like to see if any of the characters or events i have written about are infectious. I would like to track the spread of the disease. So thank you for reading this story.

The End

Reviews

[...]

Oh! This was a shocker! Brilliantly written. The transition from real to plastic was described with such skill and detailing that one could almost feel it. And, what a twist in the tale. I was just not expecting this. This is almost like the guy became one of the many in a plastic cult. Can't wait to read what happens next especially after that heartbreaking end in the last two lines.