Email Poem

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Poem

I lay within my bed, a testament
to frailty. The last lights of life
slowly escaping my sight.
As I wait for the inevitable
punctuation to life's great quest, 
I find myself thinking of what
I've done.
The list is short. It starts strong,
but all at once grows so sorrowfully short;
the sort of shortness only brought by
tragedy.
I look past the weak russling of my
thin, grey curtains to the world outside;
the world my body wishes
no part in.
The thought of all I'll never do
breaks me. I turn my head, a task
that takes an age.
I look at my curtains, watching.
they slowly sway in the breeze of the dusky
afternoon. They move dutifully to
it's commanding force, for they are
to weak to move on their own.
The curtains are a sad sight, limp
and dark, unmoving. Not for lack
of want, but of ability, for their 
bodies are far to weak.
Suddenly, I gasp.
Everything grows sullenly quiet.
The breeze no long blows and
the curtains sway as if nervous.
It grows dark. Everything is pitch; 
all but the curtains. 
They shine like a beacon on the
backdrop of my now dusk world.
Then, as if from the shade itself, 
the breeze gusts fiercely-
the curtains fly from their hinge-
Rapidly falling to the floor; 
signaling my fall into 
everlasting.
The curtains were a very frail 
thing.

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