WHILST SLOWLY TURNING INTO WORDS

He felt Death
had somehow

hollowed him out

building the statue of him
from the inside out.

Out...out...the echo of
who he had been.

He had become his own
legend

which he had to admit
he had helped to create

to hide his real self
a mask he could wear.

Now, it was stuck
and the real man had been

replaced with
a man made from words.

A man made from rumours
idle talk...lies.

He felt he could cry
that he was losing himself

the man he was
the man he could have been.

But: "Shush..."
snapped Death.

He watched himself
sitting in an armchair

the King of
Nothing.

Slowly turning
into words.

An obituary
written ten years ago

taken out of file and
brought up to date.

He would never never
be himself

no more.