thin as cookie cutters
my lungs lose touch with reality
as i axphixiate, i begin to see
freedom as a technicality.
a cold wind blows over
the savannah, kinda.
last globes of air caress my lips
like bamboo leaves on a panda bear.
The world withers, my vision slithers.
Can I see?
And is it just me, or the lack of air?
The crooked sun sags, the rattle-snakes rise
as my brain sinks, my lips' demise
the animals die around me
oh carl, you're such a kidder--
here I thought I was free
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