There were railroads
Etched deep
Across the span
Of her porcelain flesh

Each mile
Was a shrill cry
Released from the caverns
Buried within

She hung close
Like a high noon shadow
Clutched to any form
With a harrowing thirst

Still her words burn
With urgency
As a roving echoe
At the close 
Of each passing day

To have been 
Fully conscious
At her prime

To have seen
The billowing
Steam of havoc

What might have been
Is my sure
And slow demise