The Loiterer

 
There's something inside. I'm not sure what it is.
It doesn't want to come out, it waits for me to go in.

In the rooms of wood, fresh plaster and flowers
don't try and climb in my hollow sockets. I'm gone.

Don't pray or wonder where I end up. I am
between nimbus shade and starlit nothingness.

I'm more dead, varnished wood than blooms
surrounded by life making death more prominent.

There's a buzzard's shadow racing with a grin
over barren lands. Fearsome but harmless,
and the nature of its grin is unknown.

It could be death. Waiting, moving through.
Checking up on my pulsating stop-watch,
showing its formless face just to remind me
the dust-filled hourglass only gets one turn.

If there's a soul that lingers within me
why does it pass through me, intricate yet detached?

I'm not greedy, so I'll not want for more than this.
I'm not stupid enough to hope and sink but
there's something inside of me, and it's waiting.
I'm not sure what it is but I'll brand it one day.