Slow Refusal

A little poem I wrote about a person avoiding death, and how even in the refusal of death, it still comes.

The shade passes over me, ever so slowly.

I clutch my body tightly, ever so pathetically.

Why must the clouds come when called?

I feel the wind curl through the spaces,

The spaces I have made.

The air becomes thicker,

My lungs panic.

Yet, my heartbeat slows with the calm of a cold morning.

Breathe, breathe.

I cannot be fooled by the light.

So, I simply shut my eyes, to keep it out of sight.

Reviews

[zappy]

another great poem