This is what we all become
echoes of the past
lying in white
robed and ready
for the blinding light
or shrouding darkness
when it so comes

This is what we all become
fading pictures of
better days
hanging precariously
between then and now
teetering towards forever
or never

This is what we all become
flickering shadows of
once proud men
sulking and skirting
about the edges of a white room
wondering if it would have been better
to fade in the noon sun

This is what we all become
haunted shells of life
tangled and broken
wires feeding what’s left
caught by the present
forgotten by the future
as history writes itself



A/N: Wrote this after visiting my Grandfather in the hospital. Was
certainly a wake up call. Fitting ending to my November I think...