A voice through a microphone says hurry my children hurry
and then there’s the slow rise
of tidal sound, at first
unrecognizable, and it takes
until its first charged lull
to understand it’s screaming.
The voice is the kind that could coax a scared horse onto a trailer:
Quickly quickly quickly quickly quickly.
A child shrieks.
This world’s not our home
assure these children
of the relaxation of stepping over to the next plane
There is music playing softly, an exhalation of almost-harmony.
take our life from us,
Someone is singing.
we lay it down,
A faint discordance of sighs.
we got tired.
A shimmering of static. The tape rattles, runs out.