Memoirs of a Life Unlived

Waiting at the border, it becomes clear: She stands at the edge of the flat earth, The world of her dead father’s country behind her, Free fall fate ahead. Surrendering herself To this unknown, she can relent a little, fill her lungs, Feel looked after by the blindness to come. She blinks and, scanning rifled men’s tired eyes, Knows everything at once. Knees still lock And seize after months in the smallest nooks; Realisations pepper her now And relief gives way to pain. Forcing a smile at the guards, she curses This brink that lets her see and feel herself again: “...they know I know, they know I know…” plays over in her head As she trips slowly into warm space.

Notice as the candle burns - bearing gouts of molten wax, splashing light on open books - things are used and they expire. Light bulbs flicker then go dark every hundred years or so. Death hides in an anteroom, Fear the only clue He's there. Meet me at the field tonight; wait for moonlight, feel your skin loosen and begin to fold. Take the candle. Now you're cold.