Hill

There is no antidote like the one served on a silver platter-
there is no excellent feat, but to hear feet patter next to glass,
teetering. Gently breaking, softly smashing and reaching to strain harder
and harder, and harder, all the while draining the energy
remaining at a loss for breath and lexical relief- skin-
rolls aren't a problem now but ripples breaking the water
the ice like shards of honourable discussion around tables that can't
won't hold up under the weight of these false legs,
spread open to let communication in and receiving only static.

My head is a blur now. And you're shaking it roughly,
cerberus people dance lightshows beyond peripherals,
creating internal monologues that spout cracked tin cans,
wailing through the silent air and colliding with a screech.
How long can I keep up this tense before you all notice that it's a technique?
Before I notice that living in the present gifted present just
isn't it. It won't fight, won't vomit or spit like I'm so desperate for it to do.
Where is my washing machine now?