There are days when your flesh
Has been flayed from the bones
Even as – all around you –
Disinterested vendors in the Market
Gossip and cackle on.
Black-eyed jackals circle ‘round,
Marking the territory
Of what they believe to be “theirs”.
Small children abandon
The breasts of their mothers,
Just for an instant,
To witness your alien groans
And then turn away, at once,
To suckle yet again.
Every Avalanche has your name on it.
Now you are only flame and drippings,
And every word you speak is left unheard.
Perhaps you cannot speak at all!
And even if you could,
Your voice would only assail their ears
As the sound of windows breaking,
As they hurry and run, distractedly, away.