"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