when there are only bones a bit
a morsel of flesh left
and your fingers grip
nothing but empty pens
and dry bristles
your chin to your chest
the sky holds gray and no shiny objects
not a bit of yellow hope
or crimson remorse to pontificate
no pronouns left in the baggy pant's pocket
no metaphors in your legs strength
just one breath left
and sanity
strains you to the end
just ponder that last breath
and how you will rest
when it all seems to come back again
when that rooster crows
tomorrow!