Keep going pen moving

words no syllables forming

no screaming

rage only

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.