DEAD DREAMS

she just sat around

for a thousand years

building up her intolerance

to anything real,

while he waited, pulling

cogs from the ends of his

fingers; a working machine

built to do what is right

by the standards of his makers.

her fears worsen, standing

by the podium with nothing to

say; and his eyes grow cold

blizzards, waiting for the after math,

and her lips, to kiss without anxiety