each and every strand of hair,
as if they took pleasure in it,
and that I am certain they did,
even I,
in my imminent demise,
took some delight in the masochism,
until I realized it would be the last of my lives,
and that I never had the other eight I had been promised,
nothing would be left out here of me,
nothing in this field,
because they would bury me alive for sport,
and I would die with the worms,
not the fishes that I wanted to swim with,
another broken promise when it came to the minutia of mortality,
the details of my death were on the decline,
and were depressing to say the least
so I slept until I could sleep no more,
until they no longer called it sleep
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