Aftermath

A waking lucidity has me now, clasped in a permanent, fruitless embrace, an odd twitching furrow controls my brow, painless tear maps red bristled face. My heart has stopped my feelings wandered, I expect not aberration, what I had I begrudgingly squandered, anticipation, accession, my constellation. It is a fearful thing to be ready to leave, without sickness, sadness or reason, but no alarm sings and none will grieve, If I call it a day midseason. Family and friends, from sickness or age, have left me behind and I miss them, Sensing the end, slowly turning the page, to find cardboard and sleeve where was wisdom. No God awaits, no heavenly gates, no Satan, Mohammed or Scyth, I did nothing great, followed no bait, I'm belated, and shattered and rife. A wonderful thing like a theory of string, beckons its curled bony phalanx, one last drink whilst I run out of ink, as I prepare to address this imbalance.