I think.
Maybe this story is coming to an end...
My pulse is slowing down...
I write less frequently, now...
Like a stuttering breath—
Or a fish gasping for water.
I've less time for brooding,
Too busy thinking about what comes next.
And indeed, winds have changed.
My thoughts are no longer in my brain,
But wandering afar... in an unknown dorm,
Taking secret classes with invisible people.
The next life is so close that
as I lie abed I can almost taste it—
Like a fine mist...
carried from far away on the new breeze.
I am still here in this life,
Though I am growing old and impatient.
And while I am, I try to tug my brain back
Like a puppy on a fraying leash.
I keep telling the tale of the old times.
The tale that I will soon necessarily forget.
I keep writing...
Until the sputtering flame,
for the final time,
Goes out.
YOU ARE READING
Counting Down the Days
PoetryIt is the summer before I leave for college, and I am staring into the empty abyss before me, wondering what to do with my life. In this collection, I am challenging myself to write something every day (now adjusted to every 2-3 days). I may write p...
