A Testament To Frailty

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.