morbid string (unfinished)

Is it repeatedly botching suicide or surviving

life-threateningly bad decisions that makes you bad at dying?

At what point is it no longer considered being the "runt of the litter"

when the litter's all but alive. I'm trying

to find a meaning to a metaphor I've never heard spoken aloud before

yet it's sung in every last song.

And every son of a two, that's one plus another one, thinks they've got a clue of truth,

but they're all dead wrong.

What is death if not the definition of living.

The end to an actuality that - if absent - wouldn't be worth giving

a good percentage of your concern for.

Only the living can die, and we'll all get our turn. Yours

will come. Mine went. And then all that's left

is what was alive, what is, what won't be, and what isn't yet.

As far as situations go, what you got or didn't get

won't matter so much in the end as how it was spent.

Fine lines crossed weave fine nets.

Like the one between catching and holding your breath.

Putting the 'stag' in 'stagnant' puts your dreams in past-tense.

Dreamt. Commit to combat, attack static. Stay off the fence.

Tranquil ignorance. A less-than innocuous

addiction to the sweet kiss of a mistress' apoca-lips.

Oblivious to the obvious.