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