And the second...

She is just a bag of bones
A bag of groans, of dirty moans.
She is just an empty plane
Falling with quickened pace to
The encroaching fields that circle on the spinning horizon.
She is just a drip on the easel of a beggars masterpiece, never part of portrait nor philosophical question.
In the morning air she is just the last mosquito who falls to its death as the chill breaks wings of all specie.
She is just the last of the drink in the paper cup which is lukewarm, an unnecessary part of the purchase.
She is just the last laugh before a beheading as there are many undue bursts of uncertainty unruly as an undertakers utterances.
Flash! A burst of light. Perhaps she is at least a floating driftwood for a dignitary to grab and use to save her celebrity and the world it's loss of a pretty face...
Or was that just another headlight from the vehicle smashing her under the bumper again?
The closeness of the engine was warm and real.
She is just sand in a broken hourglass that falls into chaotic atmosphere without stopping.
She is just a test mouse in a maze where the reward for winning is hemlock brie and berries and the penalty for defeat is injected garbage.
He keeps telling her "just once more" for she is just a penny surrounded in a coin jar full of quarters, silver dollars, extra buttons and condoms.
She is just trying once more for at least there is still air in her smoke-filled lungs.
She is just holding hands in tightness hoping for breakthrough. Fucking breakthrough.
She is just today. She is just tomorrow. She is just hoping for tomorrow.