have you no strength to lift your head from the flames,
that tremble from the flesh where your fingers bed?
and you are drained and you are dry,
and my old and calloused hands will never be satisfied,
with the skin I've molded on top of yours

this clay will never find its way from where they lay,
underneath my chipping nails.

am I trapped beneath the weight of tremulous limbs,
or am I trapped beneath the stench of a staling mind?
come daylight, I will decide