Haiku 3

My friend would burn his life down every seven years like clockwork. Ticking with machinations clicking into place. Spinning gears and locking levers grinding grains to pit a smooth surface. Pawl and pinion finding broken teeth, a balance wheel beating out of rhythm set on a broken jewel and trigger

"You want your usual, honey?" sung in the lilting tones words take in the mouths of nurses trying not to break bones with the sticks and stones of reality. The sing-song honey, dear, and darling of order pad hospitality and concern, just like mom used to make but

Bleach barren and hollow we are withering in locked stares of unregistered concord like chemo patients tied in stalls of a communal barn. Tube to machine in recliners wrapped in the benevolent warmth of smallpox blankets carrying antiseptic plagues. In the silence we hear our internal workings being gnawed away,