20. Temple

My legs are still there; but their senses are taken,
the storm drains are strained; from my violent flood.

A trance I am in; don't wish to awaken,
my face drips with sweat; my tears naught but blood.

For the river that flows; past my feet; down the halls,
has caked up my ceiling; has crawled up the walls.

The temple of cleaning, have my number blocked; still,
I'll try with a burner, I'll, beg them; I will.