The screen stares blankly at her obsession.
Wings flutter and for a moment seem to glow
faint rose-blood violet, then are carried away
over the glass-top cage like
leaves in windy tides
covered in water
She turns away,
angry at the metallic air-tight fingers that
hold her.
She grasps for the air, mouth wide,
and heart pumping nothing but cold, clear. Silent.
Moons rise over fields in places
she's never been--
--wants to go--
but the trees remind her to stay
with their gnarled claw-hands touching
Heaven
roots buried in
Hell.
The Machine grinds to a halt
metal-on-metal clash again and she
turns to the door
standing open to
all there is outside of her
and the empty that's within.
Almost empty.
Something moves,
jerks, twitches; heartbeat.
Not entirely hers.
Almost alive.
it's the machine's
(turn)

but surely it can't be
already
she thinks
as something far crueler than nature
takes its course.