Coma -

Dragging through the sinking glass

The weakened pulse, the labored beat

The drifting skies that pass like tectonic sands

That shift beneath my feet

The rise and fall of thousands

That bleed between each breath

The meekest child with trembling heart

Waking in his death

Fill these ragged lungs with venomed air

Exhale, exorcise the greying dormant soul

The lips shall part and the bone will grate

Until this blood runs cold

The ink shall dry and flesh will scream

Until this blood runs cold

Direction speaks in volumes, as the vowels do light the void

The absence of shape, of point, of meaning

Mere etchings now dissolved

Translated and transcribed from aching palm

A record cast into the aether

This biography of me