the size of a mini-stroke is a teasing haunt

so close to end carbon streets filled gas lighting
never immersed in the nighttime voices of doctored files
where I came from they always had a secret to display
if the nightlight would only go out, leaving a dependent darkness
among the firing strokes that come and go along the wind
only wishing to sink with saints of dirty muddy water
this distilled micro-feasible drift towards the rivers of hell
but I will never tattle on the tyrant angels
or the foster home tracheostomy where God did wipe away a tear
no one knocking on the door, but Michael
testing my hearing – and leaving me behind in my memory
this time, I will not be a forfeited memory, I will go with them
now onto the day of the declaiming sun and the cherished moment
my heart gives out while my DNR request is respected
and the arriving paramedics sit for chocolate cheesecake and wine