The Writers' Circle

I am a collection of particles.
 
We force her existance;
the push and pull, the terrible truth of gravity
to which we are enslaved,
trapped in a useless sequence of energy-burning -
it will be over soon, just give her a
little
more
time.
 
There is nothing but the sharp and dull pains
in my head, of my head - my head. My skull
encases an orchestra in full swing; the sensations grip, twist, prod, scratch
me. The conductor is a fake; her face has gone, her arms wave wildly
and she has no knowledge of the game.
And so it goes on, my body dancing to the beat of a wild woman
with pores leaking dark clouds of pain drenching me
with their heavy lightness
and I see no more.