tightlipped and high strung
drawn out and quartered up
a hundred times over, for the last time

counting days 'cause the sheep are all dead
counting on one hand the people i can count on
counting the self as not one of them
without regret or motivation
no lust for life
counting on one hand to hold up the other
counting on trees to hold up the sky
clearly obscured by thoughts without clarity
a self-consumed center
chewed up
spat out
stepped on
but impossible to forget
inhale, exhale, cheque's in the mail
running the rat race, chasing my tail
playing the game; some sahara
exhale

tightlipped and high
strung out and drawing up plans
for a "better" end
to a quarter century of running in place