Spent

by Matthew Angelicola

We are the turnstiles; used by everyone that touches us
We’re an afterthought to hips and thighs
Crossed through too many times
No longer useful, we’re sent to be scrapped

We are the tires; used until our tread is worn
We helplessly hemorrhage air
Empty and deformed
No longer useful, we’re heaped into piles to be burned

We are the puppets; threads pulled out from the seams
We’re worn thin where others have made us move
Faded and forgotten
No longer useful, we’re thrown into a drawer

We are the charcoal; used until every bit of our essence is spent
We lay ebbing heat, greying from an unrelenting flame
Burned out, we crumble at the slightest touch
No longer useful, we’re swept hastily into a plastic bag

We are the lost souls of the war
We’re somewhere between scared and shaky
Decorated and hollowed out
No longer useful, we slip through the cracks