You’re dying with this poem.

Slip on the syllables and
Crack your hollow shell.
Your eyes open to read your last
moment and breath within these lines.

Kiss your lips to the brim,
drink up these toxic words.
Let them trample your taste buds,
march through your veins, and
tie the loosened end.

Let them rip the very air
you breathe when you utter them and gasp, my love,
gasp for what you’ll never find
and drown in their reflection.

Your blind eyes will see before they gloss
that you’re just below the surface
stretching for the swaying safety;
so close, so unreachable with those
actions around your ankles:

The arresting of my heart.
The muting of my pulse.
The expertly placed knife on my clumsy faith.

These words will fall like bricks
crashing and smashing into your mind.
They leave fragments like those
you left behind.

These words, they
Tick, tick, tick,
and toll; the clock tower
screeches your final hour.

These words, they come from
Me.
And they run like blood.
And you won’t run free.

Plead all you’d like…
There is no warmth for
Cold men.
You’re dying with this poem.