Many words met death on my tongue,
On the cusp of their birth,
On the ****** of their existence,
Snuffed before ignition.

My lips can’t budge,
Inside- I am screaming,
Inside- I howl my voice hoarse,
None of this needs surface,
None of this needs thought.

Still,
Death marching on-and-on,
There are no medals to win,
Gasp a breath, salute my death,
Et la fin.



EH.Jan.08.2025

Graveyard © 2025 by Echo Halden is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0