Slightly Out of Tune

So now the very thing you feared has come to pass, as you watch the sand pour through the hourglass. Now the autumn trees are splendid in their colors, but your windows stay closed, locked and shuttered. Sometimes you hear music playing faintly. Intently listening, your face looks almost saintly. In abject stillness you watch the tiny spider weave. In your mind an illusion, just make-believe. Without alarm or even normal consternation, you're aware your legs and feet have lost sensation. You see the irony that death starts at the toes, as the smell of gangrene wafts past your nose. Shadows seem to glide across the room. Somewhere a piano's playing slightly out of tune. You're like the spider herself, sitting stone-still in her web. searching for the music playing faintly in your head. ©Danielle White