Monday, November 16, 2015

Snake Skin Shed.






















Fear of death passing forth gives passing forth death of fear.
Walking to work with the dry space creeping in,
looking sideways with worry of strangers noticing
that my intentions are blurry
only because I hope they are good.
Two weeks ago I thought,
ninety one years old,
and not counting.
But of course we all keep track
of how many years the dead would have had.

I can get out of bed.
I just can't get out of my head.

Slow death just brings just death slow.
I write when I am desperate,
when body and mind are separate.
I am self involved to the point
where I'm flexing limbs without joints.
Bones cracking, the nerve.
Pain migration.
No way to know where the unease is coming from.
I am the snake skin shed with the tears drawn yet unable to evaporate.

I can get out of bed.
I just can't get out of my head.