Reality Checkpoint
Mutilated by blurred sparks
smouldering their needled vision,
breathing at split ends,
tugging desperately at their curtained hell.
A crushed flower, leaking sap from every pore,
a burst drainpipe, spilling sewage onto their feet,
trapped in their nightmare, a tourist in their own home.
Drugged with dried beehives,
sending endless palpitations like defibrillators,
each cough oscillating through a paper bag.
Praying to no one, fixed in the waterlogged
pothole, stiffened by the screws they grew up in.
Scrunched up like a bean bag,
folded into a leaden cocoon
filled with silence.
Collapsing into a puddle of ink,
dissolving into the gravel,
the shelling persists.
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