Clenched Fists.

Stark colours flail in the sand
butterflies tumble through the shattered glass
crumbling under the suns grip, wings shredded on the wind.
Roots bury deeper searching for fallow treasures, veins glutted on pus
burst between bitter sheets smeared with sex, syncopated rhythms of dignified trauma
careless minutes, spiralling deeper in the empty spaces of her dress
dissected by unforgiving hands, callous with poison, trying in vain to feel alive
clay children pleading for eyes, speak silent volumes of darkness
whisper sour nothings into her ear
echoes spreading like ripples, crumpling skin parched with smoke
each fitful dream, dragging her deeper into the void
clenched fists pressure the world to end, live or die,
each second less eager to commence.