Dying Will

the weight that drags me, like a dead doll, overkill in the dead of night waking up to razor stings of the early sun knocking my eyes sink like a rock in the express lane of quicksand, help me, help me?! calls out my tired and halfway voice The rolling leaves of March, the cooling wind littered streets with cars and unopened spaces Seeking the stage, not this one but a stage where heartbeats drive Seeking my own upraising where grass grows side by side in the ventures of my own dying will.