Final Nightmare Poem by Peter Bolton

The train leaves the station and it carries her on towards the end of the line.
She sees the fine palaces, elaborate with futurist arabesque,
And the green parks over which the views are splendid.
The carriage windows are large, a travelling conservatory,
A torture chamber of the mind.
The rows of little houses, all the same, grow closer.
The windows of the train become one.
People are running from their homes to see her.
To see how she is to be put to death.
All this is familiar.
A normal part of daily life.
The bacon slicer, the chain saw, and the mincing machine.
Slowly, bit by bit.
Combustion by degrees.
All part of her daily life.
Even the nails.

She is naked.
Her nakedness is emphasised by a droplet that burns her skin.
The carriage becomes a giant flask, rotating.
Drops of acid condense, fall on her body.
The faces of the onlookers smile.
She reaches out to them for help.
Her feet are burnt by the collecting liquid;
Their soles begin to dissolve.
She screams with pain but there is no place to lift them.
She cannot climb the turning walls of glass,
But falls onto her knees, whose skin the acid attacks.
Her hands are likewise burnt as she tries to rise.
She screams again.

So it continues.
There is destruction but no death.
Only she can make death.
She loves,
Yet she cannot love,
Alone, she cannot make death,
Yet she will make death.

Do not be afraid
That she will make death.
A normal part of daily life.
All will be prepared.