been this old nearly half a year now, with that dull dragging urge;
you know best of all, it's just life and pointed time,
slow leakings of admissions of weaknesses,
the inevitable hollow rust that forms
on the underside of ribcages,
digging dripping sugary claws into internal organs as
convictions came and left,
patching up like cold drizzle into heavy rain,
finally, leaving me running on empty for this past era.
arrive, arrive, arrive, leave:
is this all we are, anymore?

they say things about the world, today especially;
you're supposed to have opinions on these kind of things,
but, far too indifferent to care now,
having survived so many tragedic spurns already,
ruin, like second watch-hands,
flows like the escape of tepid sinkwater
and

I'm still dreaming,
I'm still all absences, tearing holes in the wallpaper
where, once, we leant and watched smoke rise from
the stark and blind holes in the floor,
dissolving into remnants of conversations ill-spent,
the same and continual pitch clutter of such verdant loss.

I'm still losing,
though.
I'm still learning lessons from the age twenty through -one,
where once dark forests grew, pine needles drying,
habitual corrections, subsequent defections
back into those same straight lines,
and

I'm still wasting time, blood and the will to not give in.
I'm still dying.