Notes About The Poem
Poetic Form: Rhyme
Inspired: 2024 March 24
Image: N/A
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!
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