Fumes

The gas curls within me, the wisps thin and transparent. The system is cool and the churning is slow. Production is stopped; there is no room for input. Only by memory do these cells shake. Crystal white coals are like spit on a dampened flame; flares splutter but dwindle quick, light brightens but dims quick, heat sparks but cools to a breath. What goes does so on pure momentum. Energy is unknown, reason is purely scientific. The destination has passed, there is no point of return. All motion is but a like warm hum in slow diminuendo. Cascading to the legato whir of smoke under the waves of helium sighs and sun burnt sweat, my feet fall over my head and, ice and cold, shatter against the cloud ceiling with a hush and a clap of meaningless decimation and sorrow. I have not the pump and squeeze for another beat with this heart of calcium and purple stone. To my own spine I rest in fits of contortion and pitiful confusion. Skin ripping like banana skins eaten from inside out, I give away the very last to a clump of sand clasped between the corner of my salty eyelids - for the very last time.