Murrain

Fever fraying at the slender tether
Between me Earth, preying on me
Like a hungry vulture eviscerating
Little left of what I am, nearing zero.
The bridges I’d imagined are falling
Away in this burnt twilight, arcing
Spans resolving into motes of dust
And deep sighs of further resignation.
The end is always looming, sharp
And quick or dull and laborious as
A gradual loss of hope and retreat
Into memorial music all of shadows.
There are better ways to squander
Life than this, afraid to lie, to deny,
To believe in, to shield oneself, only
To be beaten by an inaginary sword.
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