Aftermath

A sestina I wrote not too long ago.

Hollow man, hollow chest made of tin man.

What have they done?

Your body all covered in rust,

What was once is now a shell, broken.

And frayed ends of the wires

that once made you sing, now stick out of your head.

 

No longer talking, no longer a talking head.

oh, what it must mean to become a man.

Cries audible upon tapping the wire,

Your report said it was done,

To leave everything behind, broken.

A city in a blanket of ashes and rust.

 

The babies breathe rust,

with lumps on their heads,

in doll houses that are broken,

Dead is the man,

and I can see the notches in his spine, it cannot be undone.

Lying in bed, attached to wires

 

When it comes down to the wire,

an empire will still rust.

The damage is done,

As lovers lie in the grave with an unmarked head

All of this for man?

Screeches the needle now broke and

 

Your voice is broken.

Free from emotion, is your heart still wired?

You were once somebody’s man

I saw it in a picture frame unable to rust,

no sound when I placed my head

 on your tin chest, you said you were done.

 

Here’s to a job well done,

a toast to our promises now broken

and nowhere else to head

The city is no longer lit up by live wires,

Buildings that soared overhead are now towers of rust.

Homes uninhabitable by man.

 

I can no longer drown out the sounds in my head, even as I rip out the wires.

Man can only see so much until his soul corrodes and rusts.

Rather than create, we have broken, and what good has it done?