Perhaps, if death were kind,
it would detonate aged muscles like a
house of planks,
and so the theatre of feeling
behind your eyelids,
aping real expressions
as you descend
would be just a jumble of sad resemblances
whispered in free-fall.
But, if considered dizzyingly close, muscles
tiny as hairs
(eyes closed, cheeks twitching)
might reflect your morgue-bed journey
outwards from pain,
and the nagging sense
that your torture
is constraining you for its own, selfish ends.
a widening of realization—
you are not yet up to
so long as you cling to that little body.
© 2018 Dylan Keeling
Dylan is a citizen of the world, growing up in Holland and USA before moving to England. He writes, makes movies and plays a mean piano.