Last Words

Forming a circle, they are standing still
akin to olden bronze statues.

Their bald pates shine,
impersonating men of wisdom.

My vision gets blurred
with passing of each breath;
as cruel eyes glitter
in expectancy.

One or two odd fluttering of feathers or a shrill cry
sink my gaping self further.

I have dragged through miles;
the sting of a warm polished bullet
piercing me.

Blood marks have kept my trail.

With me in the middle now
these scavengers are on a wait;
on a wait till they gorge my pieces.

Let my suede skin brush against yours, Mother.

Let the coldness arrive
lying in your warmth.

I can't

speak

anymore.