The Dying Man


The blood trickles down his face,
Hollow eyes with black bruises,
Skin torn from the seams,
Hair split from the roots.
He chokes out battered breath,
Stammering as he speaks,
Quietly he whispers the truth,
Of his broken body,
And broken soul.
A gash upon his head,
Oozes darkly and swiftly,
Scars from the inside and out,
Drags out his slow death.
Once his harrow tale is spoken,
He lays silently, pain tenfold.
Shakily, he puffs on a cigarette,
Gazes at the stars above.
Will they be his final destination?
Or do sins bring you down to fiery depths?
He thinks to himself,
“With every bone in my body may I never know”.