Step Aside Shakespeare

X

Life is a verb, one thee holdeth on to

with shaking fingers as every evil

disturbed wraps around thy neck, grabs thy lungs,

and lingers in thy blood. Thee choketh on

names yond taste of burning flesh - names erased

the last time thee did embrace inaction.

I regret spurning every ship at dock

and sending misplaced prayers to angels.

I regret plenty of tales left unsaid

and every crossroad I couldst never take.

How many lives wouldst beest saved if my voice

were music instead of a tethered gun,

triggered to fire by my lips? How many

times couldst I has't loved without an eclipse?