Birthday Poem

A revamp of a poem I posted awhile ago. I've restructured and polished it and breathed life back into it, I hope.

Let us raise our sorry heads
from where we plither
in the hardened streets,
Our machine-woven clouds
like filthy shrouds. I awake.
Again. My lungs

barely breaking
and bending
and constricting.
I think I finally lost my mind
between my pillow and
my bed last night.
Please do tell it I'm looking for it.
I sleep with a cold sweat
closing in. The force
of my forgetfulness
is so audacious that I could
almost swear it stared
a hurricane in the eye,
told it to go to Hades.
I am grown weary
of giving my heart another
screaming reason to whip
blood around
through its earthen trappings,
when it's clear
my heart far prefers
to gorge itself
on other people’s body
language and the possibilities
of negativity in every
one of them.

Let us raise our sorry heads
from where they loll
lazily beyond the guillotines.
There is a living, breathing coffin,
upon which billions of us,
like insects, dance.
Its spinning body freezes
and melts and cavorts in wild patterns.

Next week, I will be twenty.
I will look in the mirror.
I'm afraid I won't have anything
to prove to myself that,
out of all the souls in this world,
I'm the one who deserves
another birthday.
What's the difference between
Being nineteen and ninety?

What is there to raise our sorry heads for?
My loved ones sense it, too -
we're just specks on a sphere
whirling 'round and 'round
kept to the surface by naught
but a force we call "gravity,"
bound to one another by "loves"
and "affections" that are just
as easily dissolved
as lines of a poem. We see
the minds
of previous generations
getting eaten up and spat
out by old age and dementia.
We see them losing
their senses of invincibility,
realizing that every day
is another shovelful
of the dirt we're digging
out for our coffins.

Do you not feel the impending fury?
Do you not sense the waves lapping
at your heels, the wolves
biting the flesh off
the backs of your feet?
Do you not hear the agonized
wailing in the caverns of your own
hell-demented mind?
How can you miss your own last breath?

The End

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