Dying is an Art - XVI.

XVI.
(Chaos)

I can feel things moving,
even when my eyes are closed.
They are fast and swirling,
particles bumping into
each other without so much
as an,

"I'm sorry. Pardon me."

You left me. You left me
alone and shuddering,
convulsing and abandoned.
You left me for yourself.

How can a mother do that?
How can you do that without
a second thought?

I lost you and was angry.
And then I lost him,
and I felt guilty.

Do you think it hurt when I had to
sign away his body to cremation?
Do you think it was easy to feel
like I should be feeling something,

anything at all?

My personal existence,
it crumbled, it swirled,
it tried to fit itself back together.

These little cracked puzzles,
unique and dull under the light.
They tried, they turned. They
devised a plan to shake themselves
up and fall into place,
just like that.

Into a small bag, like little bits of
marbles. Shake, shake, throw --

Do you think it worked?



Do you?