18 days left, it's a sole death.
My whole wealth of being, changing hands;
the telltales telling of someone who was living
some death sentence they inherited.

There are no such things as weeks, to me.
Now it's one linear, fleeting allotment,
forged in untold, unfamiliar feelings.
Deeply, I am alone in this.

But how is this so different?
I'm traveling through the period of my life sentence,
from one side of that last tiny dot, to the end.
I'm just one more thought on one more page,
and I have to be punctuated, completed.

How many things are still just the same!
Let's all file a bankruptcy on life.
We're at the end of the rope and we're dreaming
of something beneath our feet.
We want our lifeline to keep feeding out,
to never die.
Then, we can keep dreaming that everything
is everything it isn't.
We're only strays.
Last edited by Martyr's Prayer at Dec 15, 2011,