An evening in July

Limp extension of threadbare flesh

It is not met

Coils carefully instead in the safety of drawn up legs

Low whir from an languid light, phlegmatic spit casting a sickly skin

and much like it's lowly carcass, barely scraping together enough tired draws of air
 the room is vacant, derelict

Bleakness somehow riddles my conscious, bluntly claims the furthest corners

Infiltrates like pressured container and leaves me withered

Clockwork is cryptic, drags me down with it