the breeze

Scratch out all my lines
until I am invisible
in certain degrees.
A breeze worse than winter.

Smash my coma
with a hammer.
Splinter on my spine.
Kick out the TV.
Stand up,
the real me.

Time takes its own sweet time.
You know how it can,
if you’ve seen it.
Stuck on your own
sweet time goes on without you.

© Robert Emmett McWhorter