dashing betwixt
rigid lines in the sand
is there such a thing as
a rational fear?
clutching the cold bed
damp with warm trepidation
am i fated to be ceased
by the agent of my existence?
nine months are a death sentence
a fated countdown
god won’t share his power with me
it was another trick
never to reap what i have sown
i ooze upstairs naked and alone
