Insight by Kristi Brooks


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Your faces pour before me in an
apocalyptic wave of faded
cellophane trapped images,
those timeless stares
all that remains before me.
I find my fingers restless
with the urge to sift through
the dirt and carry your
old and loosely fleshed corpses
out of your houses
and stare past the sewed
together eyelids.
And to your numerous faces,
some lost forever,
I cry out, begging for
a single hint of death
a warning of the blackened
emptiness.
But your voices only echo back
saying that I fear death as
surely as I must have feared life,
drawing that first, harsh, breath
into my lungs.
And screaming
at the change.