Dying was unique, drugged-out,
liquor in his kidneys. Captured inside, a victim of poverty, a vow to
suffering; like wild wolves, hungry for hell, giving nothing in liberty. At the
trenches, on the roof, mother dying—it kills his insides, it breaks his Father,
the sky was good to me. Adrift in tunnels, mesmerized by ideals, what lives
after croaking? I was lost in business, I was logic in brains, feelings seem a
problem—filled with emotion. To misjudge, to hate with passion, fretting The
Great Loss! Neglecting soul, a month with water only, 40 days of prayer—laughing
for a reason, no one understands, like Jesus broke wilderness; trying to squash
wars, a problem as it churns, a filthy piece of onion. I was friends with him,
high speed chases with him, couldn’t believe him! To leave childhood behind,
something dies in that reality.
