Erasure (poem)

Erasure*

The ink is quiet, cold, and clear.

It waits for verdicts in a patient well.

The apple rots, neglected on the wood,

A small reminder of the fall he swore to quell.

He draws a world in one straight line.

His eyes are like dials, clicking through the crowd.

He traded “human” for a higher order,

Removing names to make the total loud.

Each heartbeat is a forbidden whisper.

He uses the sun to hide his own lies.

But as the ledger expands, the margin tightens—

The ink he spills is darker than his eyes.

He bears the weight with practiced, steady hands.

The rhythm of his work becomes a creed.

The ink is darker than the sin it meuasures,

A world where “cleaner” is the final need.

(end)

*too lazy to provide an explanation do with this what you will