This caustic dust has blown

In the crannies of my mind

For three long years. You drive the dull cells wild.

These nerves have been grated

to little red ribbons

All my pretty ones

they beat with the iambic drive of a sonnet.

Where does this train go?

Now the days, chlorine bleached,

burn through the membranes of my eye-lids.

That journey took my sleep with it.

You took my sleep with you.

surely those scars have been drawn on in grease paint