People die. Iím still alive. Some pass on violently As I grovel about unachieved desires Sit and bathe inside warmth of comfort. Eyes scan the reflecting skin in the mirror Searching for a price What cost it is to others that my blood is still pumping Vagabond of thought Assessing consistent happenings and doings for a dulling of the jagged edge Almost bowing to erasure of the seconds and minutes and hours lived thus far Cleansing the pallet with a swig of deception. A sore throat, swallowing too much blood. Stabbed the wrist, the body of regret Repelling off of a mountain with no stable ground at the bottom. People die. A frame of time exists. Until the portraitís removed from the case, Iíll stay stuck as a dab of paint in black and white on a vastly detailed canvass.