Room 295.3

The fire in my bonded feet
Burns the angst in my belly,
Boils my blood purple in acid,
And pushes my torn veins,
My bones, my weak tendons
To rise like a snared angel
From her daily nightmares
Of vomit and sewed wings.

In this cave of silver dust
And tape-sealed windows,
In the iron cage big enough
For breathing and cursing
Hungry rats and deaf saints,
I am my own dead prisoner,
I am my own quick salvation,
Their god just refuses to exist.

When my last final days begin,
When robed souls in metal beds,
In dirty holes, in dark rooms
Inducing dreams about robots,
March towards infested latrines
To wash off tattoos, their wounds,
I will strip naked, swallow flames,
And give up to the waiting embers.

Excellent writing Miyako73, but unfortunately I'm still too slow to get your poems at a glance. I've got a little from googling 295.3. A psychiatric code for schizophrenia here, right? At first I was thinking of bound feet, but then I saw it was 'bonded feet' which means enslaved in some way. I can see an institution here, real or imagined, and again glimpses of possibly heaven and hell. I guess 'Wash' is intentionally capitalised here? I'm unsure whether the final act is one of liberation or of resigning herself to damnation.

Good reading, Silas. Thanks for dropping by.

No problem, happy to try to give you some feedback on your work. :) You have an original poetic voice. I'll try to give you more feedback after I've read this one a bit more.