If this really is the last of life
that I am far from savoring,
why am I still wavering?
Why not just get it over with?
It seems as good a time as any.
The foliage rustles
with a soothing morbidity,
while trees are distant and aloof,
as if aware of my fate
but requiring proof.
Nature has given up on me
and beauty is my enemy.
I sought it out and found it
where it didn’t belong.
Now it elicits difficult memories
and it’s just gone.
John Tottenham 
Leave a Reply