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Metallurchin
He wasn't made to feel feeble.
Cleaved at the knee - not at the time.
Perfectly enabled and quick,
his feet would still catch under stones;
like the idiot he'd once been,
before his skull was welded shut
and his thoughts were kept and anchored.
Bubbles on the seal went seeping:
mercurial globes, dripping pitch
into every thinking recess.
He abated, hesitated,
then let it spread, flourish, and fell;
cracking the ground upon impact
where the chrome of his dome met dirt.
He watched skies from prone positions.
His diction slowed, his tongue had froze
and his eyes acquired plating.
Before their pinhole sockets closed,
he saw a figure in the blue,
molding clouds to match its likeness.
Blindness came in sheets of silver.
