Photographic

There are dead things in the hallway. 
Who is watching? 
I am. 
Am I really? 
No. 
But the dead intent of stone-faced gaze 
In the cutthroat maze, and mirrored floor, 
Bloodbath sheen and tempting gore. 
The rose-light anticipation of 
Their glazed eyes, in static sockets-- 
Motionless cues. 
The 8-ball moves. 
Along the felt, like tripsy wax 
it melts like flesh, unmeshed gestalt; 
Caricature of death. 
Angel of promise: 
Hear me, now, I pray, 
Don't let the dark night conquer day.

Punishment