Day 39 of 50 Poems/50 Days

Last Year

It was a great deceit,
thinking I was mine,
but these hands that touch me
are not my own.

They belong to a past,
the last one I was;
my thin shadow,
my lost accent.

With its cold fingers,
it measures my ribs,
as if to determine my age
and my remaining years.

It points to a plot of land;
an acre marked out for my body –
it says, “all things fall,
and all things go home.”

And so my body follows,
back to this earth,
into its damp mud.

As I lie,
it cradles me,
whispering, “all things fall,
and all things go home.”

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