Exercise Part III

She waxes melancholy in a stiff cloud of

blackberry whiskey,

amongst the click and whir

of robots drinking

their celebration, their sorrows

into naught.

Needles lick their points along her arm

vying for attention but is

met with the mute voice of:

“Leave me alone, please.”


Cloud Nine was once a fantasy

but now a cliff where

she toed the line.


. . . and the below

makes her precipice look like a wet dream.

This work by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.