How about a minute or two, is that comprehendable?
Some time for living would be welcome here
Agony is no longer inviting
Blindness could perhaps be excused
But when you feel the sword pierce your stomach
And your spine quiver from the warmth of familiar blood
Then gouged out eyes and ears do no good at hiding this bed of bile
At this point you begin to realize the permanence of action
And that quality seems inviting
After all of these head wounds do we appear as dead as we truly are?
Will we succeed at concealment again?
Words have been spoken in the name of truth
Why then do we avoid honesty?
I'm just asking for some air, something to build a sustenance on
Perhaps a morsel of relief would be admittable