Wednesday, December 2, 2020
Home Poetry Of Science, Of Fate

Of Science, Of Fate

Frost eyes stare

into the layers

and layers underneath.

Rotate, adjust, rotate, adjust.

some eyes are made

to look at what’s under

miscroscopes

and see the dinosaur-old cells

within barely human

humans.

 

Cold hands always

gloved blue or white or green.

Scrape, cut, scrape, cut.

Some hands touch

the insides, even graze

the silver linings

of a purpling heart.

 

Soft ears finding

beats in between too-long

seconds.

Thud, silence, thud, silence.

Some ears hear

the scarcely audible breathing

of the lungs

and are made

to listen

to a harsh high-pitched sound

that will resonate

through the thick walls

of death and life

when the time comes.

 

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