Secret Death Poem by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

Blood flows through my body to help me stay alive, but it is
a fruitless, thankless task, there are no hopes alive within
to grasp any meaning or purpose on this or any other day.

Bored to tears with the self-same existence year after endless
year, touching the embryonic growth of death, feeling it grow
deeper, wider inside, hidden from all eyes.

Seeking out the meaning buried, kept secret from birth, wanting
it to blossom, grow over me a shroud, so I may no longer be a
part of this world.

There are eons of reasons to progress into death and it's
unknown seasons, uncharacterized by a shell of a body, death
lives secretly behind my soul.

Watching the lateness of the hour, providing circumspection,
categorizing the moments of life's importance in files
unbeknownst to any others.

Patiently hurrying, taking little time living, instead
preparing for death, stepping out from the darkness and
boldly claiming it's waiting prize.