Chris Magazine

The internet is a bastion of misinformation and bad poetry...luckily I can bring you both...

Each word lashes out like a rapier
Deeper into my chest
Breathing becomes a labored event
And I can feel my will tumble from the wounds
My own mouth opens
But there are no words
I drop to my knees
Bow my head
Waiting for that final blow
It doesn’t come
No matter
The wound is mortal
Slouching onto my heels
I sit, dumbfounded
As my life spills onto the floor before me
Too late now to pick it up
Too late to stem the flow
Too much has fallen
Too little is left to bother to try