I regurgitate lifeless sentences.
The breathe I draw can barely keep wind.
Everyone is waiting for a scream.
That I say is not present.
Nor filled with sed distraction from truth.
I have waded through muk and grime.
Loved it at one time I suppose.
These stained hands remind and reminisce.
And the echo continues..
Laughing in my face.
His face.
Grinning.
Spinning.
Lasting.
It's a wonder I am...
Still...
Sane?