Brushing past the day,
Bodies skim along a
Surface of existence,
Isolated, floating,
Like flies above a pond,

Empty clothes,
Lived in by capsules,
Bursting with character,
Devoid of anything but,
Wrens on the edge.

Their feet spin, roll,
Crash along virtual stone,
Material closed around them,
Curtains drawn too early,
Light begging to be freed.

My hours are ending,
My days numbered,
Life pours out,
Of my leaves, dying,
Discoloured from the
Days of an eternal Summer,

Wind bellows and blasts,
As it always has, over
Branches and bark and
Whistles thinly through my
Veins, drenched in their
Own green blood,

I have become the
Season of death, the
Reminder and cue of
A quarter-year of
Dying, without grace
Without hope,

Fellow cowards loom over me,
Blind as they like,
No reminder, not one,
But I have accepted my fate,
Long after theirs has begun.

My body is in pain,
Of great euphoric unrest,
Every breath taking
More life from its
Boiling blood,
Racing down my veins.

The air is now clean,
Relieved of that stench,
The smell of sloth, stagnation.
Let me breathe in the
Life of light and glee,
Ecosystems of ecstasy.

Gravity now plays, pulls
Back on itself, freeing my
Weight, away from my mass,
My heart lifting, sighing,
Sailing into the sky,
Blue as my own blood.

He sits and stares,
To and at nothing,
The resident rose,
Past its prime.

Sleep has become a drug,
Time has lost definition,
Each second becomes
Blurred with each passing hour.

An emptiness echoes inside of him,
Haze hovers before his eyes,
The old man in the young house,
Let him die inside.