I don’t recall when I first began to think about death, my death, but I do know it wasn’t that long ago. Until that time (whenever it was) although realising I was not immortal, I probably considered I was, for death was not a thing ever imagined, not an option, only life was.
My death thoughts probably were given to me by protagonists of other stories, stories that weren’t mine, stories based on the fear of tomorrow, stories of worries that a tomorrow wasn’t possible. These stories, these worries are now mine, an unwanted gift, unwrapped and laid bare, scarring my soul.
He slies in the night
salt and peppering my hair,
seasoning the fall.
Shared with the good folk at Poets United, hosted by the lovely Mary – cheers Mary!
Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons