a city held static in frozen flames
waits while she slips, silent, through
succubus songs. orange bands
strain with supressed flicks,
motionless,
skittish steps the only strands
of shifting in the stagnant streets.
cellular divination seems futile
in this sterile wasteland. she
can't hear the sounds of screaming,
though she knows that sinners
must be burning, searing, and
slitting their own skins for sanctity.
she understands suffering, but
still-life is something that scrapes against
future-wrought sympathies, a syndrome
synthesized within the shadows of her
every birthday celebration. soon,
soon
stop
will be soot
within the saliva of to-be scheduled spawn
that know no slowing and
sprint secretly
from steel to sex,
satiating starvation in seconds
because sleeping
has
been
cured.

she only now survives in slumber,
subsisting on stark visions where
she can sincerely
s e e
and smile, existance simmered
down to
suspension of simplicity.