The Dead Will Come

Photo by Maud CORREA on Unsplash

And the dead will come, even as you turn

hesitantly towards the lightness of air.

The dead will come when you turn abruptly

away, wispy threads of hair billowing slightly

behind, overtaken by grayness.

And how will you greet this vision

as you look into its dark corners,

its rectangular protrusions of gray squares?

Will you see my reflection, or will I see yours?

The sigh that has become my life will feel relief,

Not resignation or fear, I think.

But, what do I know?

Not much, or so I believe.

I’ve been encased far too long, though I’ve

let the toxicity from outside to seep into my pores.

And melt the cocoon.