The Table

I cannot move

I cannot scream

I cannot fight

Is this a dream

I am strapped to the slab

Awaiting dissection in a lab

Am I dead

Can I breathe

There are suited men in this dream

Do they not realize

My frantic breath

My open eyes

Mumbled words are tossed around

I lay stiff on the ground

The walls are orange cellophane

Can they not sense my pain

They trade more words

They nod their heads

Not knowing if I’ve live or dead

I try so hard to blink or talk

To move my bones

To crawl, to walk

I am broken, left to rot

Just a specimen on a cot

Trying to show signs of life

To avoid the pain of a thoughtless knife

Their motives now are crystal clear

To carve me up like a steer

To study all that is mine

To destroy the whole from inside

And as I accept this gruesome fate

The knife plunges

And I awake.

 

Reviews

[deaths calling]

i love it youre explination of death is great