What Will I Be

What will I be? When the flowers of spring shrivel in upon themselves, Cradling their heads like the sick, the elderly, the lost. Every line of faces I’d once known withering away to pruning beings, left in sun too long. When each ocean has dried up, leaving nothing but ancient salts, somber and decayed to debris and dirt. Every memory I’d once had, falling from an empty skull without lips, or ears, or eyes. As flesh clings to hollow bones rotting beneath the weight of soil, heavy on such a sunken chest, carrying those heavy, lonely burdens. When the smoldering stars extinguish in a flash of smoke and stardust, and the remnants of every wish on comets billows down from the sky to my hands. What will I be? When fatal disease courses through your worn veins, and recollections slowly begin to cease as you sway further and further into blurring lands. Meanwhile my heart grows heavy with every last breath you take, every last word you manage, and every faint beat of your heart becomes the march of death as it slows, to lead you where I’ll never reach. What will I be? When every single touch, and smell, and sight, and taste, and sound of everything I knew, spills like sands from shattered glass, never to be forged again to something I could hold. What will I be? When everything I know is gone.