Gouge
A drill is coming.
You can neither stop nor contain.
Your teeth commiserate,
Box their brethren across yonder way,
And a shock so absorbing
That your nose is still living
Just to tell the tale.
Yet, that drill is coming still,
That tip staring at you smartly
Like you are receiving your last rites.
Round and round it rotates,
Light refracting a quarter till the hour.
It's just an inch away now
From aerating your soul.
And yet, that drill keeps coming,
The shrill sound of finality penetrating air,
Mimmicking your final communion
Between God and "the good."
And now, as it gouges skin and bone
And finally mixes with the cerebral sponge,
Nothing will mean anything ever again.
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