Society is an entity, but so is death.
I want to shed the former and live, have being so I can feel that thing I’ve always held in reverie, but never actually touched.
I want to reject my skin and bleed poetry for the stars,
little things so horribly believed to be more than they are.
So when does it begin, this apparatus they call living?
I ask because the universe is already three steps ahead,
waiting to die,
waiting to end.