Reaching and Rotating

My legs cannot stop moving
churning the thoughts in my head.
My feet are slippery in my leather shoes,
             Barefoot. Sliding. Raw.
I'm thinking hundreds of thoughts. Trivial thoughts.
Thoughts of Blood.     Breath.      Pain. and stabbing.
I can feel the knife moving across the
body of its victim. Reaching deep inside,
looking for a soul.             Hot.     Sweatily.. gushing body.
My legs won't stop their moving,
I am forced to follow wherever they take me.
Too preoccupied for directions.
I need a glass to break in the hall.
Then a broom and bucket for my cool down.
                           Unfathomable.
Their thoughts are my thoughts encased and they grow.
I need a bigger cage.              A key.                 Bleeding profusely.
Toenails.                   Bloodshot eyes.                As I shuffle along silently.
It is hard to eat in a graveyard.
When you do, the zombie ritual is complete.
Death is a dream, every single night
a ritual.
I dream while I am awake.
I taste blood.
I taste my own sweat dripping
into cracked sullen lips.
The pot is never full.
I want the broken glass to ring
as it scatters in the hall.
I want the steam from the
kettle whistling. Hot iron,
like a whisper in your ears.
So that I can stop moving,
Trying to stand up straight
On a rotating planet.