Poems ✍️

Slowly, meticulously breathing
withdraws his hand with the small blade
a bleeder now, nipped in the bud
compartment syndrome is a maybe.
The men in green now throw their gloves
discard the status symbols quickly
into the lounge, still full of buzz
that lung was so far gone, sweet Jesus.
Malignancy plus metal jacket, hollow point.
Oh, comfy chairs, be pleased we're coming
and light my fire, kiss the camel
in through the mouth, out through your nostrils
some day the bell may toll for us,
but, worry not, we are the Gods,
there's neither destiny, nor death.