Mammography

After the maze of doors, we walk towards the orb of foretelling. No words are spoken here except for a single soliloquy
redressing my two heads until they are one or fewer. Reduced to a fine line, my conductor gestures for me to be as calm as a lake,
and flattens my world to see through its skin like lace. One by one, my lives are placed in a room heavy with lead,
and separated into flesh and blood as if each is autonomous. After the topography is studied, gloved hands return me to myself,
and like liquid, I form the shape of my vessel again. The verdict is pronounced: the landmass is infected, its earth, rotting.
Time still flows, but it’ll stagnate soon. No solution appears before us, save to clothe myself in shadows, and follow the descent of my breath.