A Rotting Hand Still Grasps


I am as weak as this animal

The jaws of perpetual blackness clamp down on her skull

Breathing is no longer taken for granted

When each gasp is as deliberate as the last

Our common denominator, death-

As relevant as any thought that has ever passed

Quaint relics leaning on wooden arms

Teenybopper magazines forcing me to wander the streets

Her limbs will never fade away

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