Keep going pen moving
words no syllables forming
Scratching, dead and
does not move making the illusion
of life pass away.
We travel into the spotlight sunset
raving and looning
extravagant claims on the never arriving future.
The next word is my future.
the next blink of a thought.
I am in the future passing into a mist,
already dead one hundred years.
So why do I fear every move?
Each breath a life, each life on fire
with every exhale.
scorching the earth with my remnant air.
here is that tiny doorstep of breath before the yet to be opened door
I can open or wait for the other side to bloom forth into me
take me in the cradling petals that evaporate into soft air.