Death Grip.

Perhaps I am tired and weakened by things,
being battered to bits by the passing debris…
like the fat trimmed away from the rest of the meat,
flaking ash of the embers dying out on the beach…
Maybe I have embraced at last all that’s haunted me,
held on to the grip, bones broken – skin ripped, undauntedly…
bold enough to cut the ties between, poisoning,
each and every thought I have, all of my memories.