Dying

D

Dying

I’m dying. It is not a good death. None of them are. These lungs have grown discontent, maligned with the air between them. Fraught with the weakening of my will, A ghastly embarking between my soul and the dirt. Like the opera singing my demise, I can but sit, and watch, and read the last pamphlet of my age. Heathens cherish the christened spring. Ne'er-do-wells uncork the cheapest wine. Do not lay down your spirit, As quickly as I’ve laid down mine. And if it is not the wind, then it is the pain in my side. A yearling quake, vibrating through my bones like the waking of the sea. I am not the model to be recorded. I have crumb