Through half open eyes can be seen
The night drawing close.
The birds have stopped their chatter.
Tired thoughts are crawling across
The ground to a barely opened door.
My nose can taste the fear,
Of a body that keeps pushing
Towards its own end.
Every remembered tale has been told
Over the months of my rotting corpse.
Is this the final tale that I will tell.
Or will I face the end again tomorrow?