Conversing

You, with the sullen eyes, holding the flesh in the mirror:

What pain is waiting to break your spirit?

What bite is as raw as your own?  

Life will kill you in due time; there must be no rush in its efforts. 

Every year you will abandon yourself, lest your mind be last to erode.

This is the logical inevitable. 

There is nothing you know beyond endless decay.  

What will become of the one that awaits his own demise?  

Will you run towards it?  

Will it hold you as you pass?