My tongue is bitter with the salt of life.
I have ****** it of its marrow.
The hollow bones clack and rattle.

Mortality lingers like an itch at my side
That sinks in through the skin
And crawls its fingers forever outward.

I drink my fine, black mornings,
An unsavory sip. One's teeth
Would whine in agony,

Like gravestones in the wind.