The sleepwalkers stand in line

to drudge after soma’s silky stench

Yellow burning eyes, goal-fixed and rusty dull

the flesh hangs off their bones in burlap bags

And, standing, I would throw

my weight to the wind in pleading tearful thrill

Yet anchored feet will keep me still…

And I, forlorn, relent; I stand my ground

But in half-held hope I raise my hand

slowly, in one last collected reach

to wake the broken dreams

that in linear oppression trudge

into the icy maw of death.