SUMMER STORM
I was laid to rest,
my death keeps getting better.
If you find me here, you know, I'm yours to keep.
I could try to say
I love you in this letter,
or pretending you are here, sing you to sleep.
If the world was mine,
I find it quite amusing,
I would give it all away, to see your eyes,
I would save your life,
and everything you're losing,
all because you never see who's telling lies.
I am just as dead
as is your heart each morning.
If the wind has blown, you know I will be there.
I will touch your life,
without much of a warning,
never look for me, just know I'm everywhere.
I'm a summer storm,
my hope is crashing thunder.
I'm a lightning bolt, my love is five alarm.
if I rain all night,
it's just a spell I'm under,
you should know I'm dead, and won't do any harm.
I'm a little boy.
An old man getting younger.
All I have is how I know how things could be.
We still want the world
to live in death and hunger,
but I love your eyes, when your eyes look at me.
Kussmaul
a german man
for which a pattern
of breathing was named
breathing that is a reflex
which the body uses
to correct a sickness
at first shallow
then deep and fast
Cheyne-Stokes
a pair of men
which coined death breathing
breathing which in its
irregular pattern
sometimes even stops
as death knocks
I am not a pillar physician
for which my breathing
can be named
but what do I call
the breathing which
overtakes me when you near
no pattern at all in fact
sometimes I just forget
forget to take a breath
until my body realizes
I am starving and gasps
and even then I wince
with each breath
as if all my energy
concentrated on loving you
burns away and my lungs
can't quite reserve
enough to breath
in the times you
come close to me