. :Machinima: .

They say that I am a machine

working for the corporate regime.

I stare back through plexiglass

waiting for my chance to pass

through the haze of oil

into the toil of humanity

and out the open door.


They say that I am a machine

working for the corporate regime.

I perfect the parts they feed me

shining and polishing perfectly

and down the line they go.

I watch in awe as they are carried away

and out the open door.


They say that I am a machine

working for the corporate regime.

But I long to walk among them

and out the open door.


– Savannah


To the Reader:

I recently began working in a factory. Something about seeing the robotic arms move parts from one line to another makes me wonder what would happen if the machines themselves were sentient. How would they feel? What would they think about or dream of? How sad it would be, to remain fixed to the floor – unable to wander. 



. : War : .



teeth bared,

I hear their voices;

The hatred echoing through

the empty pages.

The scattered flyers

reminiscent of the stand

we took against indecency.

But was that really our cause?

Posters and banners of white,

crosses red with blood.

I feel the gripping sensation,

of an era long past.

But still you claim your peace.


Meanwhile the histories

slip between your fingers –

another noose to hang the sheep.


History is doomed,

and set on repeat.


– Savannah

. : Two : .



plastic faces

with their social masks –

I saw the crack in your facade

beneath fluorescent lighting

in the church

you no longer attend.

“God as my witness! God as my witness!”

You are witless,

screaming at an empty heaven,

beneath an empty sky.

And the book in your hands,

is Man’s greatest lie.


But still you pray for me.


– Savannah

. :One: .


Shadows peek over the distant horizon

Creeping into my veins

like the ice beneath my feet.

You are marble

cut and statuesque.

Will they tear you down?

Like the histories before?


But still

I touch the planes of your face,

in my dreams

beneath silken sheets

of my own design

crafted with the finest pixels

in a different reality.

Three demensional


I snap

and you are just lines on a page.


– Savannah

.: Wreckage :.

Under the Cheshire’s grin,

we danced,

reveling in Her light,

like children

basking in their mother’s smile.

Can you find me?

Hide and seek in the misty trees,

pretending we were spirits,

of the forest and Her people.

Cheshire’s grin,

glowing in your eyes,

like His mischief,

but I saw in them a sadness unmatched

when you found me

and withdrew to hide once more.

Nothing given, nothing gained,

but still I know,

somewhere among the trees,

or beneath the waves,

beneath the docks.

I will find you –

dense as sea foam

and lost as the ship you inhabited.


– Savannah

. :Bitter Heart: .



your passion.

As though, to say,

it was stolen from you?”


A moment passes between us,

and you brush my hair away from my eyes


fingertips lingering briefly

against my naked ear.

Your smile is warm enough,

but behind it,


in the darkest corner,

I see discontent.

When did we pass

between the atmosphere of companionship,

to the weighted minutes

in counting each other’s heartbeats?

When did a breath become a heavy sigh,

and behind my tight-lipped smile,

sit a row of pointed teeth

prepared to gnash?


There is an anger about you.”

Don’t worry…

I feel it, too.


– Savannah



. :Not Everything is as it Seems: .



I fantasize about

the death behind your eyes.

The tiny wisps

of screaming madness.

I cling to them,

like a martyr

to her sadness.


I watch you struggle

with your broken pieces

The inner demons

fighting for control.

I hear the slithering of their underbellies

in the sandy desert.

The mocking laughter behind the closed door.

The infinitesimal screaming

from the deafened child

waiting for his mother,

crying out in the darkness.


I see these things,

and touch your shoulder.

A brush of fingers.

I can do no more.


– Savannah


. :Disquieted: .


Smoke drifts lazily

from the end of your cigarette

in a casual upward spiral.

Behind us,

the clock ticks the minutes past

and a hunk of ash falls from the incense

into a gilded tray.

Your fingers brush through my hair

pausing only briefly

when the music stops,

filled by the dissonant whispers of a silenced record.

Your brows furrow

in what appears to be confusion

as though you’re slowly coming back to reality

from the distant tenderness you attempted to express.

I light another cigarette for you

and reset the record.

In return, I am rewarded

with the gentlility

of your fingers against my cheek.

And then you’re gone again.


– Savannah


. : Forgiveness : .

My breaths roll

in slow, heavy puffs of air


like the repeated gasps of the wounded.

My hands shake

as I am only

just beginning to notice

that I can use them again.

I feel the weighted press

of your words

as though

I was only just hearing them.

And from the distance,

comes a mournful keen;

“Do you love me, still?”


– Savannah



Why do I keep seeing your face,

flash before my eyes?

Why does my head,

feel like it’s constantly on fire?

Why is it only when I try to rest,

that all the things I know are best

suddenly mean nothing?


Can you hear me screaming?

What’s wrong with the dream that I’ve been weaving?

Four years set out to discover you and myself,

bent, broken, and twisted

still alive but in Hell.

I’ve discovered Patience

but little else.


Before you can judge me

for crying out subtly

don’t forget that it was you who built this escape

even as I tried to erase it

replacing the snide remarks and comments

with compliments and honest prospects.

The clock is ticking but I can’t forget

this eerie feeling of regret,

Like I’ve been shattered and resewn

to the point that any little thing

might just set me off.


I see you shrinking back,

don’t be afraid!

I know it isn’t courage that you lack.

“Feeling jealous?”

Nah –

That’s just the scent of rage

filtered through a gilded cage

that I know I created for myself. 



Can you hear me screaming?

What’s wrong with the dream that I’ve been weaving?

Twenty-three years to discover myself,

bent, broken, and twisted

still alive but in Hell.

I’ve discovered Apathy

but little else.


Excuse me?

Just a moment, just a word of your time.


That came out wrong.

Let me start over re-performing every word of your song,

But I won’t dance!

See? There’s a chance

that even in this empty shell

a Girl can still thrive in her self-created Hell.


– Savannah