Enduring, I accept the marching dark
where goosesteps strike, igniting sharp-edged stars
in shadow columns, rhythmic while they arc
away and back: a cyclic cross that jars.
It pulses pain. A fist or palm pressed hard
against that eyebrow socket only starts
a flood of flashing action replays, marred
by spliced in should-have-could-have blueprint charts.
Conveyer crossroad belts of blanket shade
return to jolt my head and I regain
awareness of two legs. They’ve moved, obeyed
some instinct – scissor shifts – I felt the strain.
My robot limbs are magnetised in bed,
and gagged volition weighs me down like lead.