I try not to have any regrets
but yet I find myself
sometimes in debt
to the man in the corner
with his scraping beard
and jagged silhouette

he's the one I would have feared
inside his web of crawling
threads
a single cigarette
draping from his lips of lead

a stream of smoke that slowly ebbs
inside my mind
offset from the kind of things
that normally would have appeared
a speeding train threatening to upset
the notion
that we are intertwined

a minuet to which we are blind
an orchestral chant
a rant
for those who bled
instead of breathing
for those who fought instead
of dreaming

because once you wait your turn in line
until your empty fate's assigned
time will burn in fiery red
a soulless threat
we may not have volunteered
for this
but why are we still inclined 
to find
what words will stay 
when we are dead