Wearing a Burqa

Aching bones all day

albeit too young for arthritis.

The ink is all dried

up even though this contraption

is new. I should return shortly.

Precise. Much better, but not perfect,

fresh ink, yet the guidance is still the same.

These hands look far older.

Each morning I wake up

as bewildered as the one before.

Hello stranger.

I feel the same way

about myself. All is static.

That is, until the day that change has stealthily crept,

and all of a sudden she is standing

in front of you, staring you in the face.

These imaginary shades are constricting my view

as if I was wearing a burqa.


Constant death

not all around,

but internally

it pervades my being,

dominates my thoughts constantly.

Every moment I am in shock.

Surprised at my ability to breathe.

When I was very young,

I faintly remember an unbridled panic

at realizing the automatic act.

I would have to deliberately continue breathing,

until I would forget again, or If I was especially self aware,

I would eventually start to gasp for air.


How uncanny

the perpetual dichotomies of life:

angst and acceptance.

Not one person has a total lack of fear for falling by the wayside.

Although expectancy ingrains a kind of desire for death.

My heart was pounding

physical phenomenon in place of a forced out emotion.

My teeth are falling out,

perhaps from unconscious nighttime grinding.

It is late now. A different kind of perception.

I’m glad I can indulge in certain things. Things that have too often been taken for granted.

This type of ache feels like internally loosened blood dripping down.

And now I will try for the temporary blackness, if only it will come easy.