a great white number counter hangs,
heavily suspended by thick chains over me.
embedded within its clean border,
ten white numbers are mounted on matte black tiles.
its digits blur.
and i, a metallic mess of cobalt and jade,
hang below, on a silvery thread.
as the numbers rush and flick, it glistens,
straining under my watery weight.
the shouts and clamours are increasing.
dark shadows shudder,
sprawling across my green expanses.
they fill the water like oil spills.
an infection, no –
they swallow the freshness of my being with ease,
eating up the pure and leaving behind the muck.
the solar system is looking in.
planets stretch their inky arms towards me,
but light years render their laboured blessings mute.
i, a living beacon in a sterile galaxy,
begin to crumble.
my colours are dimming under the unwelcome weight,
my atmosphere clouding with bitter darkness and waste.
the number counter, rude and lumbering, shakes.
and you – you, human.
you lie thoughtless,
in a room where thin walls hide you from the dying world outside. posters and pictures, photographs and postcards
remind you of a life lived,
and press you towards a life impossible.
you, who believes the continuation of your blood flow
rests above protection –
will you look and see me?
will you save my life?