This morning I pried my eyelids open and began
blinking, only to see a deceased spider on the window
sill, much like the windows I wipe clean time and time again
after my skin blistering showers so I can view
my neighbor’s dying lily garden from a safe distance,
but don’t ask me why I think it’s beautiful or why
it makes the gears inside my brain churn about
the well-being of my own decaying body
because I don’t have an answer, and I’ll begin to think
I need to see my shrink twice a week instead
of once, and you’ll believe that it’s enough
to save me from myself, but frankly
I don’t think I need saving any more than you
do, so bear with me while I analyze the doomed
state of my being and visualize the toxins bursting
free from the cracks and scars on my hands, because
they need a release from my nervous habits that overcome
my being when I think about the cycle of life, and I begin picking
all remnants of skin left around my fingernails, or chain smoking
cigarettes in freezing weather, and I’m so predictable every time
life fails to pan out in any sort of a predictable
manner, although, I have been thinking more deeply as I listen
to Death Is Not The End on repeat in hopes
that Bob Dylan wrote it as a coping method for those
like me who have not completely come to terms with death, so
I peek out of the window at those dying
lilies for a reason, and feel as if I’m dying
with them – for a sense of validation because every single year
they die and regrow slightly different than before, but they’re
always just as breathtaking.
Ks - Poetography 