like the fingers on the hand

of a dying man.

Red ink flows as I

scratch and claw

at the decaying skin

of what is left

of today.

Trying to,

struggling to,

dredge one more drop

of life.

one more day.

I hurt,

I mourn,

like moth to flame,

me,

to you,

one,

same.

Tinged with eachother

bound,

tied.

One --

more --

fiber --

move.