Near Death Existentialism
written by: Michael Shea
I look up at clouds that seem like black smoke billowing and boiling, they tumble aimlessly driven by unseen forces; tinged with silver.
Hidden from view is the pale sickened eye of the sky, a silvery sickle; just a sliver.
The unseen force of which I spoke touches me briefly, ruffles hairs and fabrics; makes me shiver.
I feel so alone beneath this panoramic view, pinned on this black board like a butterfly; forever still.
Dark wings carrion stealthily across this canvas, off to do things; get their fill and I am still still.
Within though is turmoil of oily sinew motion, an undone thing; a guilty commotion.
I have a sense of something forgotten, twists like a knife; feels almost rotten.
To the core a seed of doubt. Something is afoot; but what's this about this doubt?
I sense a pull of unknown knowing within my gut, I look down at a silvery thread; a sense of unknown dread.
I can touch this ethereal thing and yet I really can't, within a thrum a hum; consistent like a chant.
I follow the thread to where it leads, to something not yet me; not yet dead. I can’t.
I can't quite fathom, this depth of what I see; my eyes start flowing piecemeal bits of salty sea.
My eyes, the others stare at the sky, a timid pulse of flicker; is this how I die? Is this where I lie or is this but a lie?
I pull the thread in like a strand of pasta, I gather it in faster and faster; I can but try, can't I?
I sense I am falling like a dream but with purpose and vigor, a glimpse of the thread then the sky and then bang like a trigger.
Pulled into me where I saw that I was, abruptly I blink away tears my eyes widen; grow bigger.
I breathe in cold comfort and shudder it out unsteady, I prepare myself now for what's next; regardless I'm ready.