Poems

Who
I have a separate life
it is not my own
I have stolen it
from the air

My lungs breathe
Yet the fresh air seems deeper
When it leaves me
I feel hard inside

I create fiction
because I need it
Life is careless
It makes mistakes

When I see me
It is through distant eyes
When I hear myself
Can I listen?

Tomorrow
I am no longer indestructible
Growing older with pen in hand
My stories do not age
Just my body, soft and creasing

After death I will be here
in a way
On a shelf, in a hand-held device
Living in forms I will never see

You will not mourn me
I do not mind. I will be a part of the universe still
Swirling around you
like sunlit dust.