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Poem

If I should get punctured, laying leaking Crimson Tide, 
call me Deacon Blues as I slowly start to die.
If they miss me, take it easy.
All is as it should be.
It's best to cut losses, cut ties, change your name, skip town, and grow a beard.. Like To-day, act now before patience sells out in turn I act out of character, and when I leave this is all that you'll talk about.

Our natural satellite departs slow.
Binds of the parasitic plant; first love ties.

The pulse on your neck is chattering, It's slurring its words.
Downtrodden, ragged, in rags soaking drenched and sitting comfortable in combustible liquid stenches.
Oblivious even in the question, oddly aggressively asking, 
a straggly demand, expectant to be handed the light to smoke himself a real        'Death Sentence' cigarette.
The late moon is stunning, floating, acting like you're here and really you're staying, we all know that you're leaving.

What are we even thinking?

The only finger on the pulse plays to the beat of a night that reminds me of older days.
Guarded adversaries; imagine that.
The Heart Elapse.

Collapse.

Old and Grey or Rob the cradle to the grave.

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