Last Thoughts of a Dying Warrior
His mind lay prey to mumbled threats within,
drawn to perch upon a twig-thin edge
slung between a gauze of blatant dreams.
Like some homeless bird come to make a nest,
it yanked discarded bits of skin and hair,
from bins of vain memory's hoard,
then joined to form a place where
a brain might rest and preen.
Once settled, he drank
Not from the stilled rummaging
but the distilled rum in his hand
and sang discordant notes that clanged
above the cough of fractured words.
“The mind is myth. And so am I."
Copyright © John Ozemko | Year Posted 2023
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