Don't come near me.
My next trip will be on a red-sheeted gurney
I've lost track of all sight, but I can tell
that life's no longer a journey.
It is an ending waiting to manifest;
It never should have started, now I hate to admit:
I lived my life sleeping in the cellar
of someone else's heart
It pounded loud and lucid
but always left me in the dark.
Now there's not enough blood pumping
to satisfy my own breathing.
My last wish is to leave this bed in peace
for this is the trivial sound
of an existence unraveling.