The Finished Line

The wolves at my flesh feel more like mosquito.

Of every single habit from a hat.

The structure of the wound.

Doesn't heal on the pound of flesh.

Sitting front and center of everyone

in the crowd. I was only scared on my own, creation's nexus

but now I'm horrified!

                     In the counter-part 

of my role, the stunning

gale. That I've drowned

my own life. 

And death is secondary 

to our parting from our 

knives.

That I sit in circles

drinking the 

sweet yellow

nectar,

of every

sense.

Burnt 

the offering 

but still somehow

I haven't died?

Killed my senses

numb at least twelve billion

times.

Haven't I lived?

Haven't I died?

Aren't I just you in

a different suite?

Can't I go past the 

finished line?