Crawling

It can be said, maybe accepted, that all that is left is post empirical, thus, that all that awaits is death. But even in this void so much lives inside you. Memories struggle to breathe, old ways, lost knowledge, all resigned to the care hidden within the persistence of muscles and bones strapped to routine. My brain crawls this library, spasming its spasticism with unconscious rhyme and stupidity laced in naïve will, dumb consciousness, and ridiculous ideas. The spider behind my eyes is always thirsty; its stomach is bottomless; its desires insatiable; unquenched, it dances its disturbing jig, knocking all kinds of accidents from the shelves within me. Memory a musical instrument, this creature is tone deaf but possessed by a delusional x factor. The ill in this mental case for detection gets no protection, straight impregnation, imminent abortion; weird discomforts, unkindred compulsions, strong convulsions on the toilet seat; water and marrow, suck and borrow, under the floorboards three dolphins for the pharaoh; flowers and gracie; biggie and mace, bears and caves, snatch the brave; rip the hip, quip is the muscle, kipper runs a double, relevant isn't thy brother; words ring still, pretty feels, dull chills, blue pills, red gills, fish big as my arms. You see how I fail, how I crumble towards ultimate decay; an order composed of the evaporated wisps of all memories left in this soul. Such is what it means to expire: the life you've gathered has become a liar. But pure of heart the fibber be, a whole unity it can't help but breed.