Watching,
Hands restricted,
Slowly easing into death,
Over months of affixation,
Getting used to the low amounts,
Until there is no more left,
The taking of life,
But slowly,
antagonizingly slow,
So that you may watch your life drop out of you,
So you can hear your last breaths,
Your cries of pain,
And the blurring of light,
And the feeling of tightness in your throat,
But actually there,
As the patient hand holds firm,
As you try to resist,
You know it is pointless,
The struggle is over,
You let the hand do as it will,
Letting out inaudible screams,
The feeling of wanting to let go but are forced to live,
The slow slipping of sand in an hour glass,
The falling of granules,
Each one taking its sweet time,
The grueling rage of lasting,
That will not last much more,
The pain of pressure giving way to purple, black,blue and green,
The struggle was over long ago and yet you still feel as if you could be saved,
No one dares come for you,
All know to well what might come if they do,
But for a child so dangerous,
This seems absurd,
But watch and listen for the mocking birds squeal,
For I am never lost,
But then again never found,
I am here,
But not with you,
I am with you,
But not in a way that you would know,
I will never be gone,
I lay uneasy,
A writhing corpse in a grave of ivy,
Sun once shown,
Once long ago,
The dawn of the moon has brought life to me,
But now as the setting comes clear,
It was but a glimpse,
A show of what I could of had if not for my mistakes,
The fight is over,
I lye limp on the floor,
Remembering that everyone is safe,
For the danger that brewed was because of I,
The fear that drove me til I died,
The pain that wove the quilt,
Was not the only color interpreted,
Though there was much anguish,
Through pain is a work of beauty,
A reminder for all,
But I will not exist once more,
But slumber forever,
A final good nights rest.
