Her Bedlam

Second hand words,

passed down through a cord

set imagines in my mind

of a monochrome period film.

The protection the screen yields

distances us from any truth that lies behind;

a reality that is worse than fiction

as we know it to be true.

The phrase echos around the voided chamber

producing sepia stills of imagined Bedlam.

Clothed in a dirty sour milk gown

She lies white as death on the rusted bed

Restrained with hardened weighted buckles

at both ankles and wrists.

All sound trapped lifeless in her throat.

She’s younger in my head.

Innocent of age and existence.

A child lost in obscurity in the arena.

They surround her like giants

Minotaur’s guarding their prison.

She is their sacrifice, she is their feast.

It’s an archaic machine that’s wheeled forward.

An invention someone took the time to make.

Devised out of curiosity, enacted out of evil.

It’s plugged into an outlet and lights up.

The buckles are tightened.

Supposed care of the mouth guard is placed.

She does not know who she is.

She does not know who they are.

She does not know where she is.

Yet the instinct is real.

The fear is present.

Pain is coming.

Her Bedlam

My Bedlam