Room 195

I’m with the deranged.
Machines run the stakes,
masks were worn &
industrial signs conceived
for things such as tears,
keyholes, pursuances
of the god. There,
Under a white light cone
aptly signaled
by the side, the sade,
the mind legion
scavenging memory
for the right steps, thick
burnt oily footmarks
on the floor, churned black land
behind bristling