Crass and Die
The dead is blowing hisses with their thin whistle
Swallowing the metal, the sound and the supposed terror
Flying in a backward spiral permeating through minute touches
Of infinite displacement among lost consciousness
My death is not on this day
My death is my reluctance
To stop pretending
Of manning up to a stoic mannequin
My death is over my belief
That to read is not the same as to proclaim
Death is engraved on the edge of each of my invisible claws
Down to the spinal line of my imaginary tail
My frail lifeless stale state
Staring
With eyes fully filled with distrusts, mistrusts and all that there is to it
To my supposed superficial living tales
Will I outlive my death better than me outwitting my crassness
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