X-Rays—The Practice of Looking Inwards

My boy
On display
Organs
Crystal clear

I know you from afar
Through glass panes
Revealing 
Your inner-workings

You are composed
Of twisting concrete staircases

I watch 
As people
Walk
Up and down
Your concrete symphony
Pancreas
Lungs
Heart
And soul

I will always be your observer

Won’t I?
An innocent bystander
Admiring your intestines
Sprawling 
Like clock-gears
Spinning
Rotating
An effortless tune
For all those who walk through you
In order to get
To the next place

Jealous of the cogs
Which make you operate
And swallowed whole
By your industrial
Modernity
I am your girl
On display
An outcast
Of your empire

© Ayla Elrick