My mind is a cluttered museum
covered in dust.

My heart is a machine that beats
in and out of time.

My hands grasp that which cannot
be eternally held.

2 Separate Ideas in Progress

I.

There is violence in the process.

They fall like bodies on a battlefield.

Triage must be conducted,

those that can be saved,

versus the acceptable

unacceptable losses.


II.
Your knees ache from where they bashed
against the floor in front of the stage.
Two bodies collapsing in a heap
as sound roared louder than any primal beast
from past epochs long since disappeared.
Is this salvation? Is this absolution?
Numbness disappears for a moment
as pain cracks like thunder
racing through limbs
searching for the location
of the origin of agony.