Final Cut

I didn’t need

to turn off the highway

so damn early.

I was happy

in that old Ford, for once

in my dramatically shortened life:

free as a bird,

the road spooled out

in front of me like Super 8.


The right turn

became the wrong turn;

the rain became my downfall.

I was written out

of my own life.

By the time

I’d seen the sign

it was already too late.


Cue the shower scene.

He killed me

piece by cinematic piece

to preserve my dignity:

the head, the feet, the hands –

Small sections of torso.

Dissected. Detached.


A shock departure.

That’s a wrap

I checked out early.

Wrapped and trapped;

Doomed to spend the last act

stinking in a swamp,

brown leaves

and green notes

rotting beside me.

Discarded. Deleted.


Nothing to do now

but think about

The End.

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