I wonder about the dreaming dead.
Their lonely fears,
their warm ambitions,
the lust that made their blankets stretch.
I think about their children’s children.
Their early summers,
their elder winters,
the seconds when something made sense.
It hurts to know I’m just like them.
With short breaths,
and long sleep,
watching the hand tick like a gavel.
I wish, but no.
I want, but no.
Immortality is unoriginal.