I am slipping into a decline.

My time is no longer mine.

Hours I hoarded for today have been 

Filched by some pickpocket, unseen. 

I twist my face towards the west, 

Unbind my traces. My earned rest -

life’s gratuity - is within my reach.

I hear the grave's silence, lip-read its speech. 

1.4.16, 5.30 pm.