From the inside out,
we waste away.

I remember the first time I coughed
up a bit of dust, perfectly dry, and said to myself,
"this must be normal."

However, I have always been
much more than normal.
More hesitant than normal.
More fearful than normal.
More of an empty vessel
floating through life than normal.

Nowadays, if you knock
gently on my chest
like a door it will respond
a low hollow sound, void of life, free of emotion.
The dust comes and goes. I feel
the marrow of my bones
drying more each day. Eventually,
I figure, they will crack and snap,
pouring out more dust
until I am weightless.

And maybe then
I can be freed. Set off to sea
like an aged piece of driftwood. Floating out
with eyes for adventure and a fate
full of rot.