Windowed Dreams

Tayla Vannelli

Humanity once obeyed sunshine. 
Gods were made to worship the powerful orb; 
days lived only as long as the sun. 

Outside was a necessity, an ignored factor. 
No one realized the gift of feeling 
raindrops, a tree against your back, wind. 

Today, gray paint absorbs my soul. 
A painting of nature taunts my desire; 
my lock screen reminds me where I am not. 

I never knew the blessing of a window 
until I spent eight hours longing for truth: 
night equal to the day, rain and sun unknown. 

The monotony of fluorescent lights demands 
retreat. With laptop in hand, I fly to that 
table among the wind, trees, and sun. 

An hour spent above, knowing the sky, but 
phone calls and a dying battery urge me back: 
to sit, once again, in the office without windows.

The Blade

Seth Stringer

I take a blade to my chest, carving 
And peeling it open. Worms engrave around my 
Lungs, shaping their catacomb in the 

Crevice, and feasting on the vital organs 
I need to breathe. 
Maggots live there, welcoming all 

entertainment. Eating bare bones, ingesting 
The intestines. 
There they eat away my jaundice hued 

Flesh, sucking black blood and green bile.
How they make haste! breeding and 
Eating as I try to pick them out. 

How pure I am.