If I Were a Vinyl Record
wispy grooves of sound
playing on dusty, conical flat lungs
scratching the meat off
a chalk board of
throat burning fumes
I abuse my recall of
better days
hands at throat
contorting fingers curling up
to barbarously dig
for more required air
life seems harshly longer
when you can't inhale
the gasping sounds
play over and over
bringing tears to one's eyes
as if the power of death's tune
was invited willingly
what a master peace of sound
the echos of a squeezed life
being drawn to a
painful untimely sad death
with a spinning head
that goes around and around
till vomit runs from a embittered mouth
and leaves you with a pungent taste
the taste of murder
the kind, that plays out
playing out in some kind of illness
smelling like the dusty air is on fire
Copyright © Verlecia Fields | Year Posted 2017
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