Habit

Ironic poem about dying from life.

Habit

She revealed a satirical grin
As her veins twisted into
Nothing more;
Needling her faculties to
Devastation.
And I gripped the carcass-
What a sinner I'd become:
No blood could glut or extend
Me to mercy.
And so it was,
Like the drunken
Burn beneath her skin,
I followed ignorantly.