On fields of shallow soil,

my heart splatters to pieces.

Fragmented into disjunctive being,

punctured by staples from latter scars.

Flesh ripped from tendons and bones;

hallucinating on mirror image of loneliness.

Scream I do toward the grottos of dark;

no answers are spoken, nor tokens given.

All that remains is the pulsating steam roller,

under which illusive large wheels

I’m cast in but droplets of blood;

for I’m me, in stillness me, broken I am.