Poem #13: Giant Like Wolves
Updated: Aug 18
I did not know I hadn't experienced Death as an adult until it happened. How can that be?
When Death stole my lungs, breathing became contract work - I had to build my own respiratory system without the help of nature.
How did I not see others with holes (giant like wolves) in their chests? How can this level of oblivion exist?
What do I do with a chest so open vultures circle my withering body while I sleep?
How, what can I sing?
What melody can escape my parched lips with such devastating beauty that Death will remember me? Give me back my lungs? Let nature hire me with a salary of breath?
How many more lungs has Death stolen? And what will happen now that I sleep with a medicine bottle on top of my axe?
Who will, no one can, I will save me.