The single, once crisp tulip.

I am dying

From within. I don’t wish to,

But I think of this skin

That holds me

Back and I feel ill. I stare,

Glazed over, at all the happiness I have tried to

Capture in moments of grace,

And self contentment.

But this does not do me justice.

This hand does not do me justice.

It all falls short of feeling.

Now I write blankly, efficiently, capturing

What I feel because it is easy.

Do I long for you, or do I wish happiness

Would knock me dead?

Knock me down,

The earth upon my head.

I wait, I long, silently.

Suffering all, wishing nothing.

Nothing will come of nothing.

Or shall I become a sod

So as not to feel and rot,

But just rot, unaware.

I am dying, like a flower,

Whose time is limited.

But unlike a flower,

I see what’s coming.

Unlike the single, once crisp tulip

That hangs aside from the others still-fresh,

Falling from the boring vase

I see my fall

And contemplate it often.

And read poetry which seems both

To help and to hinder.

Like you, an enigma.

The feeling seeps through my nib

Through my heart, through my ribs

Gushing out onto a page, limited,

Tired but taking shape.

Hope leaves me, to be implanted

In a line

A seed,

Sewn. Waiting, longing, wishing quietly

To grow.

But not knowing that its time is limited.