Falling. By CpSingleton © 2015
He can’t write for falling salt.
He can’t feel for numbing skin.
It’s not a case of laying fault.
The air is merely getting thin.
He can’t write, the salt is flowing.
Gravity pushes on his spine.
People mistake his eyes as glowing.
So he tells them he’ll be fine.
He can’t write, though stumbles anyway.
Because he knows that time is sparse.
He’s just a rock, grown old and grey
Also, very tired of this farce.
He can write, but does it matter,
When the world has a wider screen?
He could bounce on rocks and splatter.
Let vegetation cover him in green.