Our Private Orchestra

Staring at a screen...
trapped inside my mind
A dying body sinks into this tattered sofa ~
a marble plopped atop stale pudding
One arm props my cheek, the other, hung crooked ~
a busted marionette tossed within spinning concrete

Staring at a screen...
trapped inside my mind
Legs tremble and dance to the melody of my moans ~
we listen in torture, against a private orchestra our own
Toes pull in, as fingers would to crush a rotting plum,
reaching closer to the skin, my feet will soon be broken

Staring at a screen...
trapped inside my mind
My heart trots along at the speed of a sprint,
unaware of the marathon starting ahead
A mist of sweat, mixed with tears, begins to quickly collect
into my shirt ~ a mosaic of wet patches sporadically surfaces
I watch each grow wide, like pupils to a candle gone cold

Staring at a screen...
trapped inside my mind
Agony is but a word,
for its existence, if witnessed,
needs nothing of the sort