I wonder what it be like

To know you were going to die.

To want to bash your head in

Instead of trying to understand

What is left of your

Pill box.

Degeneration.

Muscle,

Bones,

Key notes

Crack,

Like the pavement in winter.

Broken glass

Salted with crystals

Floating in your blood

Every week

Counted

D

O

W

N

Like logs

Waiting

In the saw mill.

We whisper,

Because that why we can make it easier

To drop bombs.

Softly poke

Probing,

And stabbing.

These words are no longer able to protect you.

Prayers only

Make you sleep.

Rushing time,

Until you can’t pretend

You are going to die.