It's true that I'm not there.
I'm not here, nor have I been.
I find that I fade, that I wave
in the wind like a sun dried flag.
I crack on the edge, I chafe and I chap.
The sky shines bright with white light,
and those rays beat me to a pulp.
I am baked, stewed, and steamed.
The crows' caws sound like
an old worn door hinge
as they start to come for me.
The coarse sound of rust.
Their beaks tear and gnash,
my crisp skin must be good.
They save my eyes for last,
on a mere whim.
Now I soar with them,
my dark wings spread.
I am not here, I am
not there.
Yet.