Mortality

This poor child being born
doesn’t know yet that it will fail.
Not soon, but too soon all the same.
A hundred eons and not enough,
nothing survives but the end.

Days drift on memories disremembered,
willed away by need, climbing to the surface,
bloated cadavers of missing thoughts
floating up and up until they drag us down.

White knuckles, no breath.
Let it go! Never,
Never tight enough.
Slinks away to fly
nothing true to touch.

-Seneca Sutton