Lately

I wear black,

but know not

what I

mourn.

I am only

draped with

the

heavy

handed

knowledge

of my own

existence. 

There is a

certain

lingering

about the

winter air;

and

I can’t stop

thinking about

death.

It is in

every

corner,

singing

softly.

Imminent:

a shadow

at my grandmother’s

feet,

yawning closer

daily,

smells of

desolate

obliteration.

I am repulsed,

I am caught

(off-guard)

by curiosity.

At the museum,

an exhibit of

mummies

makes me weep:

shriveled flesh

and soulless

finger-tips

curl inwards

and away.

I am distracted,

I am distraught.

He talks to me,

but words buzz

heavy against

my breathing;

I concentrate

purely

on heart-beat.

I am,

I am.

Sometimes

the present

slips

too quick

into the past,

darkened

and void.