scratching a dying,
then fingernails for food
said, “no more,”
and bled a little less
but the royal juice was sustenance for the taxman, axeman, waxman, knacksman.
get the drift
was ready, waiting, longing
for the last breath;
he scratched a living from the exhaled,
kept the words, expelled the air.
oh no, not again,
the rain has left her dry,
within a Planck of skin
to leave her contour,
after life
scratched her away.
©HeyHey 2013
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