THE RED LINE

THE RED LINE

Saturday, November 1, 2014

DEATH AT MY DOOR

DEATH AT MY DOOR

Each year doesn't last as long as the one before

Seasons go streaking by in a blur

The highs and the lows of love and life have fallen into a slow hopeless cadence

And I clamber through each gray day doing more of what I had done

The day before.

I stay inside

I cannot decide

Whether in the chair or pacing the floor.

Death is scraping like a withered twig at my door - gently insistent...

Inviting me

To dance my last

If only I open to it and embrace what fate awaits

It is only a matter of time.

How much more?

Will I choose,

Or will I be chosen?

Death is excruciatingly patient.

 

 

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