Grass

Split tongues slithering air,

Puffing plumes of vapid vapor,

Swept as poison by the momentarily wind,

Filling the nostrils,

graying the dying pupils,

Inhale and sleep,

to the metronome of empty ticks,

Sit and watch the face with hands,

Endlessly spinning a spiral web,

Of wasted life upon the alter,

Sacrificed to the rusted god,

Oxidized and moved to dust,

Yet eyes still gaze upon the figure,

tracing the lightened base outline,

in the twitching shores of bloodied sand,

I've waited here,

trapped on a barren island,

Slowly absorbing into the wastes,

A land lit only by the burning of books,

Blackness fades from the sky,

Designs in the patchwork scrubbed,

Waters are the wine that spills from these veins,

Pumping to vertical anemic holes,

amnesia of the land,

The process never stays,

Left to gulp this swollen throat,

Choking off the hands,

clumping balls of sod,

Words muffled in the quite blades of grass,

poking into my eyes,

rupturing the cornea,

I blink in vain,

It's still there, and grew into my brain,

rooted behind occipetals, consuming my mind,

Pulling the rope only makes it tighter,

and my fingers are slipping between the ridges,

An agonizing crunch and rip,

I've resulted to pick my nose with a needle,

gouging out the lines inner skull,

Etching a chant of meaningless rage,

My hands catch and cut upon the green invader,

flat and serrated, severed from fore to late,

The blood never flows anymore.