deepundergroundpoetry.com

turning time

If every minute was a day
then I have been laying here for years.  
Mimicking the signs of sleep,
lulling myself with my cries.  
I grew old in this time and now  
I am feeble and grey  
but no wiser than I was hours ago.  
I can't bring my body to rise  
from this inevitable tomb called my bed.  
My casket of comfort.  
So I am going to lay here.  
I am going to lay here until I can't.  
Until I am ash.
the only thing to remember me by  
is the dried tearstains on my pillow.
all the time they spent trying to move me  
now in their memories as i turned them away.  
That'll fade soon.
like my ashes,
my memory will be wisked out the open window  
beside my bed and into the dark yard  
where I will be forgotten  
and no one will bother to sweep me up.
Written by Matthias_Crossed (Matthias Lambert)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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