xChasingsafetyx
06/04/07, 08:22 PM
To Oswald: The Needle Screams Decay
Revolve and recycle; the colorless fluid creeps through my veins like ravenous spiders. The clock clicks and twists as each mechanical intricacy moves within. There is nothing but silence and oppression. I gaze longingly out the adjacent window, but nothing, not storm, not faith, not love, and not even power can liberate me from this irksome casket-of-a-chamber. Each minute passes seemingly slower then the last; each casual heartbeat strikes softer then before. I drum my fingers vivaciously upon the railing. My aching mind schemes escape; my heart pulses like a living body within an earthen tomb. I feel imprisoned, exploited, reduced. Figures clothed in ivory-white enter, and then prod me with long, spindle-like pins. The pain is intolerable, but who am I to challenge it? I feel ill, frozen, stretched, and sullen; the air harbors an intoxicating scent like a factory. I can stretch my arm only as far as the cords allow. I feel reclusive, cumbersome, and pensive. Outside, wheels rattle as they bear the maliciously wounded on cushioned carts; hurried footsteps scurry on behind them. I hear the ethereal shrieks of the dying, their voices resounding like rusted wind-chimes. The white-cloaks return. Miniature spears plunge deep in my flesh; their prick-points glimmering like wavering candles. I feel a sickening sensation of artificial tranquility swimming through my body. Rigid, I collapse upon my colorless pillow, eyes closed and breathing systematically. I careen, arms flailing, through a cloud of inescapable darkness, and strange winged phantoms swarm through the immeasurable lightlessness as I plummet. Spherical torches drift through the blackness; caskets float meters below. I sing a tuneless dirge, heart racing and eyes dashing.
Revolve and recycle; the colorless fluid creeps through my veins like ravenous spiders. The clock clicks and twists as each mechanical intricacy moves within. There is nothing but silence and oppression. I gaze longingly out the adjacent window, but nothing, not storm, not faith, not love, and not even power can liberate me from this irksome casket-of-a-chamber. Each minute passes seemingly slower then the last; each casual heartbeat strikes softer then before. I drum my fingers vivaciously upon the railing. My aching mind schemes escape; my heart pulses like a living body within an earthen tomb. I feel imprisoned, exploited, reduced. Figures clothed in ivory-white enter, and then prod me with long, spindle-like pins. The pain is intolerable, but who am I to challenge it? I feel ill, frozen, stretched, and sullen; the air harbors an intoxicating scent like a factory. I can stretch my arm only as far as the cords allow. I feel reclusive, cumbersome, and pensive. Outside, wheels rattle as they bear the maliciously wounded on cushioned carts; hurried footsteps scurry on behind them. I hear the ethereal shrieks of the dying, their voices resounding like rusted wind-chimes. The white-cloaks return. Miniature spears plunge deep in my flesh; their prick-points glimmering like wavering candles. I feel a sickening sensation of artificial tranquility swimming through my body. Rigid, I collapse upon my colorless pillow, eyes closed and breathing systematically. I careen, arms flailing, through a cloud of inescapable darkness, and strange winged phantoms swarm through the immeasurable lightlessness as I plummet. Spherical torches drift through the blackness; caskets float meters below. I sing a tuneless dirge, heart racing and eyes dashing.