dying a thousand small deaths,
profound yet altogether meaningless,
dotting the t’s,
turning blind eyes,
listening to the noises of the nines
while waiting for eleven.

how high does this thing go anyway?

everyone knows that I like it loud
so you better quiet down.

the embers are still aglow.
there’s still a little life left, right?
a little bit of heat? heart?

I’ve only ever wanted to be a five,
maybe a seven;
somewhere north of hell,
maybe a few miles
south of heaven.

*
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020