The Device

This feeling melts into my blood,
a molten metal, flowing harmoniously
with reddened Nile, murdering
lives not lived. Cooling metal soon to stiffen,
Soon to make artificial trinkets
to sell to strangers, ignorant
of the history that took place there.
It thrives upon the dead
cells atop the face,
Feasting on expression's tender
meat, until nothing but bone,
duplicating those found dusty
in the highschool closet,
plastic, unseen, replaced by superiority.

Still, a struggle to run,
to discover, somewhere,
a device to keep it from molding,
to surrender it’s thievery of life
from these half shaded eyes,
to bleed the metal from veins,
to note history upon a face
that segregates the dead
from the passion,
and to display the model, hidden
for a decade, but no more.