Vent

cicadas and ceiling fans

i felt, what I imagine to be, the cold hand of death

last night as I lay my tired head on my beaten pillow

the loft my bed perches on felt infinite,

and the sounds of the world around me melted away

i laid there, watching darkness cloud the small fragments of light still peaking through my eyelids

a warmth washed over my brittle bones, lifting me into the air with a blanket of safety around me

i heard cicadas singing, and frogs calling

the humming of my ceiling fan turns into waves crashing on the shore

"has my body kept this secret from me",

i ask myself

"has it hidden death until she finally comes to take me.."

i was afraid to open my eyes, lest the blackness not change

could I really hear ambient life, or is this the reaper calmly dragging his hands aside my face

all of the sudden, I'm beckoned back to reality

she calls for me, and i cannot disobey

back to my day to day,

only dreaming of slipping away..