Watchmen

We forgot how to speak – the mute,
cold, and passionless people,
dripping from word to word,
and forgetting how it feels
to burn, and burn bright.

So instead, we sit silent,
cold in ivory couches,
inlaid with gold finish
all but rotting out,
because we need
what we need
and will receive nothing else.

Ours is a stabbed sort of salvation,
crushed to fit our mold.
“Certainty!” screamed through the gag
that our mouths clench closed upon.

We hold it so chokingly close
with no room for motion, except
the twitches that we want;
so close that the world is drowning,
because the watchmen failed to warn
of the blood: the iron chaining
that dooms us to be damned.