Alone in the Hotel Room, and Meant to be Working on French

Was having a dialogue with myself today, pacing, thinking furiously, and ended up composing a poem out loud. I workshopped the end when I put the whole thing to paper, but it was still a process heavily dependent on playing with the life the words took when spoken out loud. Hm.

Shine

There are places where the wild time flows, moments scattered like shards of a crying sky that wraps itself around your heartbeat while you sleep. The soul of the soil sang to the Sandman who whispered in my ear of all there is to love and fear here in this tiny little infinite place.
As I pace I try to trace all that I am right now into this immortal moment. I don't have enough skin to live with, enough to feel and touch the world's width. I told him, "I don't want to die young." He replied, "I don't want to die old."

Doesn't want to leave with his memory faded and cold,
would rather burn out bright in a single spasm of light. He forgets that stars shine for eons before sighing away in their final phoenix song.

I would rather live long, like the sun,
spreading light over everything I look upon.