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Poem

--A sentence to die for--

The air slices sharply 
through a frigid migraine 
with the putrid smell of bleach. 
Shivering awake 
with a ghastly chill 
a soundless room stretches; 
without even the chattering of teeth. 
Wires twine with metal in bone 
scraping intensity into pain 
with every shudder of a whisper. 

“Hello Clarice”  - I can only think 
with a distant giggle 
and fond memory. 
The ambience 
of the fluorescence 
shoots through my eyes 
as they barely open 
and for the first time ever, 
experience shrapnel. 

A sterile and dedicated place I am in. 

The walls run deep with 
blank canvas all around. 
There is only room to write. 
With no tongue or hand 
or eye or pen they think 
I am without?!  

Feeding off the oppressed faculties 
of every untold blush -
the words will never stop. 
My mind is already caged… 
and with beautiful potential. 

I do not choose to die 
nor do I envy this life 
but I will direct my mannerisms 
toward each day’s moral compass. 
A survival code for every breath left; 
however long this be my home.

The art of execution 
remains both of ours to deliver.
This I know in my blood as
it is written on the walls-

"Well, Clarice -
have the lambs stopped screaming?"

--4/13/2017--
Unshackle my verse contest
"What if poetry was illegal?"

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