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Conversation With Myself

A few more minutes, or a few more days?
'I'm going to die' I insist to myself.
Placid smile on forlorn face.
When the chlorine and the bleach
won't clean the white any more;
When the flavours and the food
don't appeal in any sort of way.
'I'm going to die', I insist to myself.
Flagrant denial of mortality.

Time is fickle. It promises much
but fails in its delivery.
'Will it hurt? ' I wonder.
Or will I slip away quietly
like water down the drain?

I hear early birds making their
insistent chatter noises against
the backdrop of the dawn.
Traffic moving on the street.
People in cars on their way
to where-ever they are going.
I sit on a park bench trying
to absorb everything all at once.
'I won't be sitting here next year.'
I mutter in my head.

Lie down. Lie down.
.Don't think any more.

'I'm going to die.' I insist to myself.
'Die and be here no more.'

Sipping slowly of the
words as they falter
through the mist.
How long is left is my world.
And this conversation with myself
will not change a thing.

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