This must be it
The harvest of words
Falling by the wayside
Terror, a crippled crab
Scrabbling insidiously forward
Fingers of pain
Inscribing tattoo on rigid flesh
This must be it.
This must be it
When each breath
A trimph wrested
From an implacable foe
The finality of the veil
·That blurs loved faces
The icicles in the blood
This must be it.