It came to pass
as I passed
over,
lids shut tight
imagined
thoughts of the last sip:
pollen air,
the taste of triumph
the taste of despair:
bitter sweet.
The final thought,
the final tear
seeping
my final beat
creeping:
thro' shadows I'd not dare.
The last thing I heard:'
I told you it was over.
'Tick. Tock. Tick.
Mindless, banal
pulse of the clock,
hypnotised
I float down the canal,
freedom washes over me,
my comeuppance
welcomed with such joy,
pain oozes from bloated pores:
release of anguish needling my existence.
Existence?
37 years, not a tock more
myself
the babble
'Do it, do it, do it..'
'your shell immortal.
'the reality I fear not.
Though the image begged to differ,
my arms flailed:
devoutly nailed
to the low of my high.
The mirror mocks me,
each hair,
crease and
minute detail
that has graced my unearthly face.
A piano played my mind,
couldn't get what I was suppose to say,
onlookers
carry their bigoted shame,
a tragedy and
I'm not to blame,
the ache subsides as they
burn my charred remains.
Dance of joy
hooked
upon free flowing hash,
eases the inevitable
sleep.
scores feed
pick my intoxicated flesh,
the subconscious core
silently screams,
dilated,
lacking fear
of an early death.
Michaela James.
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