The Precipice

Too conscious to die away
To die away in the bed's grave

Yet so slack and listless
Like a long drawn whisper

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Too hot and ripe to be slaken
Cold as beggar's filthy, dirty hands

Rich in ruminations of today
Poor in hunger for the morrow way

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With dry eyes roving 'round
Searching tears on the other side

With pain ripping spine asunder
Slouching over moments passing by

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Just a torpor on the senses' verge
One more breath and an ache

One more nod and a torpid gaze
A maze unravels... into deeply haze