When the last bit of light that shines through
is dead and we are all matching shadows
with the same blank reflection,
distracted and withered and bound to the ceiling,
can you not even then, feel it move on your skin?
You can’t push the blood back in.

Crawl now to the river, but swear not to go in.

In the comfort of familiar sounds,
we pass, languid and half clotted,
through thin and coughing doors.
Our eyes tell no particular tale.
We are so vague and unsound.

Our unworn limbs will bleed the same
as the ones we left hanging around.

It’s a circular endeavour, for all time.
Having floundered and flourished, we come untied.
Our hands trace the peeled back paper walls,
and we become as corridors.

Your unborn friends will feed the same mouths
as the ones you left safe in the ground.

Crawl now to the river, but swear not to give in
to the comfort of familiar sounds.

When the last of the light shining through is dead,
and we are all matching shadows
of the same blank reflection, distracted and withered
and bored of the seasons, will you not, even then,
call them into your bed?
You can’t push the blood back in.

Put the blood back in.
Push the blood back in.
You can’t push the blood back in.

We pass, languid and half clotted,
through thin and coughing doors.
Our eyes tell no particular tale.
We are so vague and unsound.
It’s a circular endeavour for all time.
Having floundered and flourished, we come untied.
Our hands trace the peeled back paper walls,
and we become as corridors.
You can’t push the blood back in.

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