A couple of film references turned up in my Facebook feed today which jogged the memory and set this off in motion.
Bound
He is shaking the way I imagine typists
produce diatribes
when they think the internet is wrong.
"She's infectious human waste, good luck saving HER!"
The release of hate drains his skin, his clothes,
as grey as concrete.
I show him no response,
brain locked on the Fisher King.
Wondering if her wounds are mine
held open by a knight wreathed in flame.
Dreaming this might be my feat to accomplish,
that we might both get to go home.
Yet I don't reach out to help her.
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