Light Box
Cold, warm, horrifying, inviting
Grinding away at the last pink and grey pustules
pooling at the bottom of my
Skull
Gods own light pushes and claws helplessly
against thin nylon
Its primordial importance
Toppled by billions and billions of bright bulbs
Burning and boring into my eyeballs
Spiralling and spiralling down
an everlasting pit of fluctuating fun and fear
And skin and sin and guilt, guided
Down as fast or as slow as
You want, your choice
Quick glimpses of the very bottom shoot sharp
Icicles of despair into my sedentary soul
Thick mist
Clears temporarily from my
Glazed eyes, I push and claw helplessly against images
Of razed villages and burgundy-bloodied bodies,
Kicking and
Screaming against the unfeeling and undulating
Dilated eyes
of fellow billions
Copyright © Daniel Crawford-Lynch | Year Posted 2025
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