[WhatILivefoR]

I remember.
there was a time when you looked upon me
with something more than this monotony.
but time draws and contracts the short-
the manifest second consumed and inert.

dearth is as it seems, though ‘I know not seems’.
Indeed it is, and I pay dearly for my speech.
The spoken word, the hell bent drawl;
but unto your ears it means nothing at all.

Your regret of me is bitter ice to my remains.
the purging soul and stomach, the dulling of my sane.
And I weep with a consciousness of my muscles detached
with eyes ajar; unable to rise and deaden my watch.

She comes again to sell herself short and unspoken
for a limping body unhinged and estranged to choke.
The stale taste of mouth drenched upon the ground;
she cowers every strike, and kneels for the grout.

It’s something unfamiliar I inherit from my superior:
any range of emotion rapt behind a skin barrier.
The thing that just kills me is that I’m the tragic third
and that nothing escapes from the wrath of their birth.