Apostatia Poem by Taylor Rosewood

I'm in a garage and looking out,
counting the miles to an inflatable bed,
where I'll lay my bones in exiled repose,
and untangle myself from sticky threads.

And there, surrounded by crates of clothes,
either badly worn of full of holes,
I'll contemplate the heart beats slow,
somehow contented in my new found home.

It's Apostatia, and I'm alive,
neither rescued, resuscitated, nor revived,
and with beer and dog men I'm now allied,
drinking and drumming throughout the night.

I'm high on spirits and low of mind,
and thinking I'll call before my mold decides,
but the phone, it slips, and the battery dies,
beneath the glaze of my apostatical eyes.