Iron skin imprisons a clear mind.
To them, I’m still me. The same soul trapped beneath heavy eyelids, waiting for the moment I remember myself. It’ll only take a week, or two, a month, maybe more but not long, no, not long.
They’re wrong. I’m a husk yearning to be thrown to compost; a corpse begging for its worms, a phoenix denied its fire. They are free and fluid. They do not know it’s possible to loath time for what it is: the presence of a future, a continuing.
Against my tympanic drums, whispers of advanced directives and God’s timing sound. They fear the guilt of taking what is not theirs to take.
Please, god, take it!
Their hearts would bleed tears if they knew how loudly I scream this. But they cannot hear, cannot see, cannot feel what rages beneath calm mouth and peaceful brow.
So I endure. This anthem alone sustains me: death comes to everything.
Follow Foy S. Iver on Twitter: @fs_iver