I am unmade, as this bed
I can never seem to leave.
I sit, with cloudless eyes, and stare
into this tunnel of artificial light.
Like Janus, I see into both
the past, and the future—
but never the present—and in
both directions, death: imminent, eminent, permanent.
Our lives divide infinity in two halves,
each governed by our total nonexistence.
I am a bubble in the breach,
a teardrop in the sea.
I am all that will ever be.
