The mountain did not move for me,
now I pound on a graying chest,
and clutch at my fluid skin,
the last blanket that will cover me.
The rasp at my throat closes,
as does the sphere of visibility,
What chores will life bring,
when I have ceased to beat,
at the rhythm the heart has set.
As I decay into the realm of what is unseen,
I know I will be forgotten.
The burial plot will be a monument,
that only knows the company of other monuments.
I lived as surely as your tears trickle at my demise,
and the beginning of darkness to me,
is welcomed by your sunrise.