Cloud Of Death Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

I'm dying,
Feeling the comforting cloud of death
doing flip-flops through my strain.
Energy bursts are useless attempts
at frosting flakes of panic and regrets.
Slipping.
Forgetting.
Curt instructions from a dangerous smile.

Cloud of death. Your mysterious tension
caresses every
blood-vein in my body.
My lungs restrict,
my lungs constrict.
Empty shallow boxes
filled with the nothing of
resistance.

Can't anyone see? Does anybody know?

Does
anybody
have the
slightest idea
of just how
tiresome
paying
attention
can be?

So let me go. So leave me alone.
Let the fibres of believing unravel,
slip apart
like
cracked glass
about to
shatter.
I'm hurting.
Disillusioned membranes zoning into silence.
The self-illusion so palpable and strong.
Hope
is for people
who have
flowers to grow.