
After the bones
it does not matter.
I will not see the sun climb.
Or the moon at rest, again.
Even the death blossoms
will mean very little.
Now, I am an expert on the
time that I have left.
So, using each
of my living cells.
I choose wandering days.
With my eyes open
and senses buzzing.
There will be no silent
death for me.
Hey nice poem, very dark. “I choose wandering days.
With my eyes open”
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