I'm a dying man, and I don't know what for...

The days are beginning to bleed together,
as they once did.
Young, fresh pink skin
fresh no longer
hangs in gray folds, sick and tired,
like the rest of her.
Back then, the blood flowed in rivers,
rivulets of ruby drops
mixing with the wax in the voodoo spells of youth,
"Pleas just make this stop"
becomes,
"Please, just let it start"
the old ways,the only known paths,
eventually become too worn down and dank.
Just the first walk around the block
brings a miasma of pathetic misery,
blanketing the lungs with it's foggy soot,
breathing becomes just too much fucking effort,
even though every cell knows that just not an option.
What does an old animal do, when all the self-preserving instincts go dead,
soiled by too many years of faking it,
as if the flight instinct fled
with the ring of tissues elasticity years ago?
Feet cemented in dirt soaked in old blood,
transgressions past
The tang of metal in the air
drums beating familiar rhythms,
calling the beginning of the dance
purity and control long gone
blood begging to be released,
let free,
the pulse joins the drums
hammering at the skull, begging
for just a taste of the past.