There are theaters
in the mind, where this sort of fiery thing plays,
afterwards. With all the actors grilled
and looking like potatoes, ready
to be burned more.

There are so many places to die, but less
enwrapping moss, all the time. On a pier
the thing rolls forward on 3 wheels, towards a murky ocean.

The one being hurt doesn't cry out
that it hurts but the one doing the hurting
cries out continually help me for I must be saved.

His voice rejected after his force failed,
parades of robots move the action he hates
in front of his eyes continually who will be master.

His arms are weighted down with birds
who don't know how cruel he is,
how obscurely dark, their yellow wings
on his face.