You say that you have a limit
that will soon arrive, and that
it is alterable, but
you change nothing,
your words are smacks
of bubbles in a bog
that pop, and though they rise
from beats deep at the core
the pool smothers the throbs
and make each
more quiet.
When you ask me to pray
at your bedside,
I will not. You slurred
at mine. When you die
I will laugh at how absurd
it is that I feel like a piece
of me slips in liquid nitrogen,
like a liver or
a fist or
an entire cluster
of neurons ready
to store better memories,
yet that your image
still survives as an eternal
croak that sounds
from the stains
of your swamp water.
No comments:
Post a Comment