The Dead Will Come
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.