Poem number 416
I sleep, fragile, whilst you sit in a chair
Waiting. Content. Your right foot taps the beat
Of some half remembered tune and you care
Not a jot for what’s to come. My defeat
Is nothing, for what is one among scores
When each one looks the same. Another day
Another dollar. A million doors
Slammed shut. You hum whilst my life slips away,
Rub your thumb along the edge of your scythe
And think of your dinner. You have no heart
No soul to ache. But I, once young and lithe
Now fade to dust whilst my soul falls apart.
. I will ache enough for both of us, Death
. So swing your scythe. I will take my last breath.