I'm feeling real heavy.
One shoulder pressed like a plow
into the soft give,
a grey mouse folded inside
my trusty tin can.
Cheek nuzzled against the pillow,
like a cat's against the milkmaid's knee.
A mole,
I dig my own earthy cellar.
Quiet, safe in cotton.

Tomorrow is as bright as a porch light under the new moon
I am the moth throwing myself against it
Begging to be consumed

Death has no carriage
His cloak, a blanket,
He lies underneath, catching souls like falling snow
Some curse his inattention,
Others are just grateful for a place to land

They say it feels like drowning
But I am hovering somewhere between earth and sun
In equal hopes of home
And glorious Home

Caught in silent suffocation
I am tethered fast to both
Unmoving,
Unmoved.