I
Stand
And try not to breathe-in
The stale
exhalation
that,
Smells like
Death
From
Tired mouth-breathing giant.
Fumes
of travel,
Confined space
and
coffee
coated tongue.
Repeated phrases
so
resonant
In my mind
That I am willing
to bang my head
Against the wall
to stop them.
Trapped,
on the cusp
of liberation
but
Still,
The occasional,
Intermittent
Aroma
of corpses.