A speck of thoughts
scattered, bruised, in tiny pieces
collapsing in my land
Like a strange land, an exile.
Ideas once flourished
Now hardly beat, thrown aside
Oh, how much it aches
More than physical pain
As if heartbeats are being
plucked out of your core.
Death. Is easier
And worse, my entity,
My "almost" entity is subject
To your black statistics.
Not even a number but
The "nearly" before it.
You killed me,
You killed me before murdering
My core.
And yet my thoughts
will still flourish in another being
My soul
Will, always rise
In the face of
Your dim titles
That cannot even
Embrace my death
Or the idea of it
Imagine being the "nearly" in a death statistic.
