I am aware of the trail I leave.
My brain is full of spikes;
my head nods, and one slips
shaped like an icicle crashing to the ground.
But it isn’t cold, no, it sheers a hole clean through the bedrock.
I am tempted to toss a stone and count, but
I cannot bend over for fear of the consequences.
Kilimanjaro is squatting on my doorstop and I
must navigate the tangled viper wires
without touching my skin;
it is so frail it wafts off with the gentlest breeze.
My lungs gulp in streams of steam,
and exhale chunks of dust.
The hall is a catacomb,
dank and full of
spider webs resembling the dead,
my personality slowly disintegrating with each
If only I could reach my bed,
I just might save the world.
© Copyright 2017, Melanie Mills. All rights reserved.