Death.
She watches us.
We march.
We see her take those around us.
I know you, I think.
But she won't take me,
no matter how much I watch her,
not yet.
Maybe she'll take me in the
next march.
In another lap.
Another laugh.
I'm drowning in
grayness, in clouds.
In the people that watch
their eyes wide.
She pauses to look again,
make her mocking acts
of not coming for me.
We march.