Dead people don't have birthdays.

Clambering, grasping,
gasping, stumbling.
Footing lost.

Falling. Screaming.
Sighing. Dying.
Hard, cold ground.

Back up there.
Blood dripping from
open gashes. Faltering.
Fumbling. Crumbling. NO!

Smashed. Shattered.
Crumpled. Ruptured.
Broken. Death spilling
forth. A dark, dense
cloying, endless agony.

Then, afresh, climbing.
Gripping. Pushing. Aching.
Yearning. Indifferent to
pain, by now. Hair soaked
in blood. Splattered on
the sticky forehead like
berries crushed underfoot.

Clinging on, defiantly.
Overwhelming. But over.
Finally over. Wheezing.
Choking, but free at last.

Mez

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