In little drops of blood spilling
on path that goes to grave
a man struggles to live
without an epitaph.

It is a straight
but complex living
in straight patterned buildings,
in a sky where souls call
for buyers
without tagging a price chit.

Here you exist and embrace
a cosmos constructed
through acids and atoms.

For you know, you exist
to breathe and die
while moving about
in bits and pieces,
looking out for graves
that earth refused
to dig out for you.

It is for you to live
in patterns,
but it is out of control
to die in patterns,
it is here you exist
in patterned fragments,
without an end and in death
without a grave.