The fevered rock sucked you in
Until at last you leaned against the one who does not give back
They found you in the fetal position
Like a flower you enfolded against the weight of each breath
Growing shallower; friend, you must have been terrified
And no one there to hold your hand
You of the hustle and barter and outright thievery
You of the cackle and renegade laugh
Oh death, it gets too much press from the likes of us
Who know the taste but crave the whole plate
The full course from any number of sources
Why can't you just stop, people will ask
How to explain
The thing that is killing you is life itself.
Rosary in one hand, pipe in the other
You timed each hit bead by bead
There is no settling down once the medicine has rocked your insides
And while it seemed to soar the soul grew dingy
As you dug madly for remnants on a berber carpeted floor
What is life for, after all, if not discovery
This body, this vessel, this makeshift matter of blood and of bone
Death gets too much press from the likes of us
Who say our most fervent prayers by fire, alone.
