The Finishing Touches.

I often dream the dreams of Death...
Not dreams about, but dreams of within.
The way he plans, the ways he whispers so closely,
To strip the soul from our cages of skin.

Does he breathe in?
Or take of our own?
By lung, by heart, by fated will alone?
Or do we plant these invocations...

And reap that silent seed so sown?

His fingernails...how do they clutch?
Down deep into the grottos, where a coffin so sleeps.
Fistful of black, I saw in him...
Where maggots and worms would devour its meat.

No quench wrenches my heart.
No shaking, no beating.
And I watch the world fade away through his eyes...

With no feeling.

My dreams endlessly...
And my forbearing worries...
Do they make any given kind of sense?
Like the noose, like the bullet...
Lodged like rusting nails inside the flesh?

Or I am too much of a coward to say...
That my thoughts bleed with murder...
Each and every day...

But only to myself?