One is morphing from a human to a thing With his skin reduced to flakes and Muscles to liquid acid Slaved to instincts that might not be his And for the other Themself is broken into them and self Slowly even their physical form Dissolve into you The big other stares down at you When you sit on a dream of Earth And feel your presence in a rose-tinted void Then he makes you hang on a noose Pulls you to the end where decomposing skin’s turning red And leaves your pendulum swinging towards no self As your name gets echoed progressively lower Then you become a tuning fork at A million hertz humming ever so perfectly to the big other’s ears ”It’s not even night,” you say I reply, “It’d have been enough if it were.”
This poem had repeated themes with for I lived long. They were meant to be read one after the other.
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