The Terror
Old oil lines creep across the pan.
Stagnant, chilled air settles into the bones of the house.
The stairs rumble under heavy steps,
Rapidly pursuing slammed doors stained with notice papers.
Rattling, a crack in the ceiling deepens.
Fear the bliss of the rush of hot water,
For every drop is time ticking forward.
That patch of mould up there might have spread.
Beyond the thin walls and under the dark,
Bodies rest in alleys, awaiting their next kicking.
There are flowers with no headstones,
That you scramble to find, over and over again
---
Robespierre's mind cracks and flowers sprout from within.
Saint-Just retires to his place in the ice,
As the Machine tears down all walls.
Privileges are tossed into the fire freely,
Yet still the bakeries lie dark and silent.
Every loaf is another day.
The alleys are filled with blood-soaked pamphlets,
Read and discarded, spread by the wind.
Growing, the rising gale surges across the plains,
And every day the crowds meet each other in the eye and beyond.
Out of the doorways, weary feet carry heavy minds into the light,
And they sing in unison, over and over again.