Half-buried in a tangled mass of weeds and rusty shoots,
A wooden placard, greeting guests, points at neglected routes
Toward an aching mouth where, stale, the strangled sighs blow death
Across tea-coloured corridors with every laboured breath:

Deserting quilted veins of leaves, each brushed like glowing jade
In streams of light I cross the breach and life begins to fade
For here, the twisted muzak plays forever on the poor,
Made seated mannequins by life, spent only to endure.

In ordered rows they sit alone - each mimicked by the last -
Their wispy hair and cardboard skin hints nothing of a past
Where, doubtless youthful, time was cheap and life grew as a blaze
Until, the embers vanished now, they cling to vacant days.

Each static stare sees life ebb out into a tepid steam,
And, with each glance toward me here, outside becomes a dream:
The shadowed creases of the light engrave across my skin
Turning to lines etched through my face, made real by fear within

Until, now tasting bitter age, I leave the mortal tomb,
Unable to withdraw my mind from those it shall consume
For though restored, I see those leaves across the dripping sun
And like them, shredded in the wind, someday I’ll be undone.
 
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