Spontaneity

Deathbed

Deathbed

1 am. I dim the fluorescent moon above me.

The room darkens, save

the pale moonlight that glows softly through

the crack between the curtains, illuminating.

The black bed, engulfed by shadow,

calls to me, seeks my patronage.

I lie down in relief, relishing its embrace.

Sensing my relief, the pale blue ceiling

splinters into straight, symmetric, sinister squares

that follow me like a disease,

graphing out my future,

hour by hour. 

Dread, as the moonlight now spears

through the slit,

curling like a noose around my fragile neck.

Eyes popping, all I see 

are the squares which dictate my life,

morph into a sickle which

slowly,

but surely,

descends. 

It grazes the tip of my chest and stays, unmoving.

Gasping for air, all I can do

is pray

for the black bed to accept me into its warm embrace.

But it turns cold, and I shut my eyes, wondering

if I should push the sickle, down

into my fragile heart.