"I worry about you sometimes."
I say to my reflection.
"I wonder when you'll realize that you've died?"
Mind gone frail, flesh grown weak.
You hardly have the right to speak.
Trembling hands balance your life
back curved beneath this burden
you stumble lost amidst the fog of defeat
limbs grown numb, eyes become bleak
you bleed these sins in hopes to breathe
these cherried drops a mother's milk to the corpse
faded husk you move within the wind of your own passing
fallen now amidst the saved you crumble to make your own grave