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