a permanent stench in the air around me.
a hovering cloud awaiting my fall.
denied and withheld from a dying spirit.
a rotting thing six feet below.

I fall,
the stars watch as my knees buckle,
my body keeling.
I shiver,
the rain batters me, the wind blowing my skin off.

I lie on this ground,
willing to be soaked into the earth,
willing to be sank down below where I can’t find me.
There’s a ruthlessness to the elements,
a battle they’ve won already,
a battle they keep up nonetheless.

The earth is my enemy,
I find that I don’t belong.
Restlessness keeps my bones weary,
my blood fails to keep me warm.
Among the stars I’ve dreamt of home,
but maybe I simply have no home.

1 Comment

  1. theoutsider says:

    Mysteries of death


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