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The Comfort of Constant Motion

by Beth Pauli
The weight of the world sneers
as it stares you in the eyes.

So close
your sweat falls onto his brow
steaming upon contact.

All the innocence
in a newborn baby's eyes
couldn't shed light any further
than this devil's face
constantly glaring.

Too scared
to hold your eyes open and see what's next
on the agenda during your express trip into hell.
Too weak
to lower your lids.
Too stubborn
to turn your head.
Too paralyzed
to scream.

Your only movement is the trembling
of your pursed lips. Gasping
for breath is pointless and was given
up long ago when you first
started seeing the faint outline
of this demon's face every time you looked in the mirror.

As you regress deep within yourself
seeking any form of comfort
one thing trips your senses
as your last effort for life.

Slowly, dense water slides down your
cheeks and off your chin.
The salt from your sweat mixes violently
with the salt from your tears.
All you can hear are the silent explosions

(and silent screams, your screams).

All you can see is this face red
with anger, dripping sweat, veins
popping out as subtle as the Alps in
Kansas.
All you can feel is your heart
in your hand, limp and dry.

Everything fades to red
and there is where time is frozen.




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Copyright © 1997 by Beth Pauli. All rights reserved.