Night Terrors and Apathy

All rise, her third eye 

glistens a thousand afternoons, 

July haze sweeping her irises. 

But this is no poem, 

this is prophecy. 

He leans over and hushes his thoughts into her head, 

hair standing on end - 

she leaps without looking 

into the second year void. 

Watching her hit him, 

salt climbing down her cheeks, 

muffled and mute she rests 

under a clothesline of organs. 

The urge to kill,

She fell out of loving. 

No child of hers could save her day, 

invitations to the sixth floor of concrete and rock, 

a bomb shelter - 

she would explode on the ground. 

There were no riveting songs, 

there were no more melodies- 

just hell music and dead best friends.

The inevitable poured itself into her breaks and fractures.