The Dying

The Dying                 May 26, 2007 (Revised October 16, 2013)

A face of consternation
Stemming from alienation,
And I lie down 'pon
 The base of the mount

To view the shiny stars,

Some shooting, others not;
And through this, tho',

I am sans a single care

Save for the pressures

Consuming my blacken'd heart.

I thought I might perish,

And I do not think I would care,
For may one truly feel alive
Upon the maggots, hungry,
Feasting 'pon him?
Whatever, so I shall claim;

I think I may well be,
As with all the fish
Swimming within the sea.

This world is hardly worthwhile
As a place to reside for me.

No pulse, and I shall not
Rotate that dial;

Let nature run its course,
For I am just rank and file.
All I care is to be free,
And whilst here, I shall never be.
Lock down! Land Ho!

And 'tis the punisher

With his instruments of torture
To take my life,
But I feel he may see
That within me; for
All he must do, you see,
Is to simply leave me be.

He shall never need to flog me.
My flesh is the ultimate pain.

Moments spent dying
Whilst I gasp for air, 
Thy nerves tremor;
And yet, the world
Hath the balls to say
I am nothing else
But a hypochondriac!

There are no rhymes
Nor intelligible reasoning
To think this to be
 A happy season for me
When ev'ry moment is really
A locust storm to commiserate,
Biblical in proportion.

Sure, I have slic'd thrice
My left arm 'fore; and
Bled myself a bit of scarlet
Till her fibrin dried,

But then some wounds
Shall never heal, friend,
And I shall never do so
 Till the Kingdom Come.
'Tis the deal, my friends!
'Tis the deal, you see?

For I consider The Dealer to be
The real bad guy, c'est vrai!