A Dying Diction
Billows, screams, oozes of tattooed regret;
a sun-gazer of proportions, I
tread short steps, while
deaf to concerned pleas, and
turning a blind eye to the woe-begotten weary
sympathizers, I
keep one faintly pulsing vein to the sky, with
cracked lips lifted to the wind,
separating words from reality,
among breaths that escape in hushed solidity, speak—
if only for the fleeting second,
Am I Alive?
