A Wish
No heirs will sniff my dying bed,
No priest will spoon me from his book.
I spit the staged lament away,
The velvet hush, their hoping face.
Wheel me to the window’s edge—
Let dawn’s knife enter through my chest.
The world will turn without my name;
I will dissolve into its dust enraged.
Copyright © James Mclain | Year Posted 2025
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