Immortalized

how my skin flakes from the parchment,
how the children sneer and snicker while
their adults, tired, wonder why – why them, why was I of all people,
all the people in the world,
why was I chosen, I,
with my thin brown scythe and the windmills caught mid-sentence in the back,
with dull sun on my painless back;
why me?

Leave a Reply