Back again I trace my steps

in the hollows they left before.

i follow looming signs

in empty, bustling corridors-

I slouch against the harsh whiteness-

my own dirty skin

and imminent collapse

are made clear by these arrogant, falsified tombs.

The lights illuminate the entire room,

leaving no where for him to hide

so he stands in the open,

the centerpiece of the exhibit.

This fenced in conglomeration

of misguided hopes

gorges him till he is no longer predator and we no longer prey.

He simply collects.

Birthday songs can occasionally be heard in the distance

but the words sound mangled by the time they pass

across the hard tile

and through the sterile air.
As if noise itself is not free from his reign.

Back again I trace my steps.

He watches and laughs at my indignation;

have I learned nothing?

I enter the tiny room

which suffocates the body and frees the mind up to roam

those passages once more,

to look back on the rooms-

were they better empty or full…

Time itself take heed upon entering this place,

no one is spared and you are needed elsewhere.

The silence is grand and imposing,

the breath before a fortissimo,

the caesura.

Back again I trace my steps.

They keep telling me I have purpose here but I don’t.

They don’t understand that ‘purpose’

is lost on him.

I catch glimpses of him on occasion-

in the catch in breath, in the milky eye, in the bloated gut.

And he enjoys my understanding.

For he is my master;

and I am his jest.

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