Metrechrism

A silent person

is running past

in a post-traumatic

freestyle sprint;

hardily breathing the air

that reaches the

burns

in the lungs.

Death, confound it;

is the only thought,

as a freedom screams about

from the wake of the eyes

flowing steadily

a stream of saline.

Bloodied. Beaten. Bombarded.

Lowering egos

into the bath of the Id.

IDDQD

18.38|03.7.011 -c thomas c-