Wounded Sigh

It's Hell twenty-third century, they con Troll, got shot in the brain nothing vital, though my mind's at a loss an absence, helloo, I am but a guess in my own house, it sense I do naught exist for breath wit hold, me, the unwonted in touchy halls, a stairway estranged to each step of my soul, scared lost balance give aweigh myself, the battery--can't take it, no spark left, woe I was beside myself, I can't move, phone, I called, no answer, where is it ... nooo, finally, I'm out -- there's no ESCAPE! trachea's gorged too much oxygen, can't breathe, ohhh!