A hundred words to talk of death?
At once too much and not enough.
My plans beyond that final breath
are currently a little rough.
The dying thing comes on so slow:
reluctance to get out of bed
is magnified each day and so
transmuted into dead.
I dream of dying all alone,
nobody there to watch me pass
nothing remains for me to own,
no breath remains to fog the glass.
And when I do put down my pen
my memories will fly like birds.
When I am done, when I am dead,
and finished with my hundred words.