He sleeps,
embracing death's slivers;
chosing a world of fantasy over reality
where there is plenty
for a privledged few who
promise to help him but more than often
he waits - sometimes not so much to exhale -
but to inhale breaths of rejuvenation,
lost to a throat blocked with the sands of disappointment
and a stomach that has tried to digest too many empty promises
from deceptive,
empty,
food
absent of nourishment.
One man's death
is another man's mercy.
Selah.
© 2008 John M. Swails




John






good luck in the contest! ^.^




30 old applause
