The Dying

The Dying                                                  May 26, 2007

A face of consternation
Stemming from alienation.
I lie down on the base of the mountain
To watch the stars,
Some shooting, some not.
And through all that,
I have not a care
Save for all the pressure
In my heart.

I thought I might die,
And hell, I don't think I'd care,
For can one really feel
When he's maggot food?
Oh whatever.  I think I might be,
As with everything within the sea.
This old world is hardly worth living in.

No pulse, and I won't push that dial,
Let nature take its course.
I'm just in the rank and file.
All I care is to be free,
And here, I ain't that.
Lock down, and here's the punisher
And his instruments of torture,
But I think he might see
That with me, all he has to do
Is just leave me alone.
He don't need to whip me.
My flesh is the ultimate pain.

Moments spent dying
Aren't hard to find with me,
And yet, you have the balls to say
I'm a "God damn hypochondriac."
There is no rhyme or reason
To think this is a happy season
When every moment is really a locust swarm
Staging its massive offensive.

And sure.  I've sliced my left arm before,
Bled myself until the fibrin dried,
But some wounds never heal,
And won't until the day you die.
That is the deal, my friends.
I think The Dealer is the real bad guy.