The sprint of dust is
a chokehold of coiled rope
grappling with bloodstains
and bullet holes, robbed
arteries and cracked ribs
driven into lungs like a
bad crash.

Each death carries a
stop-watch on perma-play
tick tick tick
as the day gets farther
away, and not one has a
claim on me, but I'm a
bookmark on a page they
hope spells their cause
on my death certificate.