Mind Games

It's just a marble knocking against another.
It's not the rush of Niagara Falls.
Still, the room turns purple
not of salvation but purple like a bruise.

Veins throb red in rhythm
to the lips of a big mouth
with the loudest roar that drowns
a zebra screaming from a kill.
The maze of dead-ends, like a circle
without an opening,
is like a mind with one pin hole
where every thought goes through.
And the pin hole is the sun
belonging only to its owner.

The ears are deaf and hear not
the tortured sounds of a rabbit
trying to free itself from a trap.
And the eyes do not see
the scraps of skin and bloodied flesh.
For now, the future speaks only
of quarried brain and zombied body.