My stomach is churning butter.
I carry the weight of my,
Existence on broken arms.
The air is a cloud of toxic smoke
That forcibly engulfs
Me in a blanket of haze.
It plays with my mind. Until it spins like a top and
Becomes like a bowling ball thrown at crystal.
A million hollow pieces.
Scramble to get far, far away.
Until I am teetering on one foot atop a flagpole
Where the cold winds are hardwearing
And I slowly freeze from the inside out.
Icicles form around my lungs.
Soon my soul will die inside my chest
And I will, too, become as the crystal.
Into a million hollow pieces.