you can hear the drums beat slowly
on the day of your death.
the wind-strong enough to tear up skin-
but gentle, calmly closing in-
so call me euphoric,
call me persuasive,
call me a riptide that gallantly braces
for the moment my heart-
skips a beat-
are we finished?
no! she persists-
till the noise which floods my ears
screeches, shudders, squirms,
till it is piercing my skin.
and the light which consumes me,
bursts upon my ear drums-
battering, bouncing-
like the cold call of death.
so please call me euphoric,
yes, call me persuasive,
call me the name by which my heart’s acquainted-
i am the beating and fleeting of life-
the harsh touch of day,
the warmth in the night.
