Torsos on Olympus

the yellow follows her. minute breaths she's forgotten to take. staggered voices. broken with timbre. the archive. the capacitance. of hunger. the simple electric of skin. ample fires pause the scale. the lies almost enough. the measure of loyalty is in the strength of the poison.

the worker. the empty room. the dust on the glass. as the cold finds its way through the cracks.

this grey room wheezes with disconnected fevers. the tremulous stutter of hopeless anticipation. the mind is a frigid bed. life is an unwelcome visitor. 

the red listens. short strings tease the bulb. the body stretches. reaches into the darkness. to move that switch. see again. like it used to. when the sun still thought of us as disciples. when the winter still had an end to it.

the slave. the listener. deep in the throes of one final cocoon. a stagnant metamorphosis.

the blue room. these last hours like a theater. a drama of conditions. a stalemate of conflict. a silent audience. a panic of decisions.

full of stabs and shouts. a delirium of loyalty. leaves her alone with her madness.

slender portals between saviors and assassins. naked dolls with plastic limbs to sell.