to be

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i am corpse

i was born a corpse

there is nothing to be but.

 

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who dies in july

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i’m a mess these days

and these days are melting away

like candles on the back porch

in the heat of july

 

it’s only june

i’ve leaped ahead of myself

i’ve made notes and revised

and welcomed the crippling fear a few weeks early

 

it comes with perks, the subconscious montage,

it comes with the tune for a morbid little lullaby :

 

who will die, who will die in july

father, step father, friend, feline?

who will die, die and die,

in stationary,

somber, arid july?