As I, the reluctant connoisseur, lay dying.

I open the book to the page
where each word
reveals the consciousness
left to rest.
Reluctantly, I note the passage
as my fingers
trace whispering caresses
along the worn lines.
Rare, pulpy syllables
are wedged between
my tongue and cherub cheeks.
I slam the fictive points
at the crowd,
yet the impact is feeble.
The true picture is exposed
as sign upon sign
synthesise to create the gloom.
A weary traveller,
I nestle at the final destination:
the epilogue of my journey-
all of this ,
as I lay dying.