Thursday, April 14, 2011

Well Groomed and Glaring

He was screaming. I could hear
its rasp like lady bugs biting and
crawling through decrepit lungs.

His face was a cold pear
stale and fighting off yellow stares.

I had never seen death.

In every dry plate of skin was a last moment that just
stopped happening.

Tragic, sure.

Very sad. My apologies. I know.
But why can't we just acknowledge
that death is nothing more than a
fine moustache?

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