Last Thoughts of a Dying Warrior

His mind lay prey to mumbled threats within, drawn to perch upon a twig-thin edge slung between a gauze of blatant dreams. Like some homeless bird come to make a nest, it yanked discarded bits of skin and hair, from bins of vain memory's hoard, then joined to form a place where a brain might rest and preen. Once settled, he drank Not from the stilled rummaging but the distilled rum in his hand and sang discordant notes that clanged above the cough of fractured words. “The mind is myth. And so am I."