Haunted Hand

I wear a dead mans' ring

and it's hard to pull in air

when oxygen tastes like mud

and sweat rising from the deep.

it feels like there are gills that

spasm in my chest.

watch me flop against

the restraints of land,

and tear me open with greedy

fingers, giddy at the sound.

frailty ripping apart. but

what choice does a canvas have

when the earth begins to shake?

so I wear a dead mans' ring

and curl toes for strength

when lungs can't catch the breeze.

this fading revealed itself

long before brush missed its mark.