Slow warm decay of days passing
this soft cotton music, everyday lull
does not fit
does not fit
the hard final chill I know is coming
the grinding of bone against gravity and time.

No matter what words I scatter
luminous pearl pathways
will get ground to dust, eventually,
under marching boots.

You fool yourself,
thinking they will gleam forever.

We are so alive right now.
This cruel and vibrant world
that we have all built together--
how can it end? How can it crumble?
How can we die?
Why can we die?
We can all feel it does not fit.