Sam Packer

'a torch put out in fields of snow'

A finger circled my red button
This finger is one I do not know
It does not know me, yet cares not.
And I hide my cares for show.

Sharpened nail scratches varnish
Eking out a demons wail
At once my sense is heightened,
At once I wear my veil.

The button says depress me,
My body wishes to believe,
That all this gruesome cess pit
Offers is light relief.

I thought you'd imagine sirens, or an explosion
But this is just not so
It is a slow, distinct erosion.
A torch put out in fields of snow

Calm as it drifts out of day
Calm as it culls all life
Soft as the touch of a child
Dark, and in darkness I will thrive.







 
 

 

(c) 2006 University of Sheffield Department of English Literature :: designed by nagzaka :: maintained by Bunnyphobia