Death and Short Sleeves
We want long sleeves sometimes.
But that’s what death is.
A short sleeve tee.
Folded away.
Layers of fabric of time.
Unfolding on my being.
Tugged over my head.
Too small somehow.
Death becomes whole.
Like a tee shirt with a hole, but can be salvaged.
We throw on a long sleeve jacket.
That’s what death is.
Tragic and worn everywhere.
Trying to keep warm but not overheated.
That’s what death is.
Could get thrown away easily.
Not knowing I am next in line.
Tragic.
Torn.
Folded up within.
I could die at any time.
That’s the magic of tee shirt weather.
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