I’m afraid. I repeat it to myself
in vain. This isn’t poetry or testament.
I’m afraid of dying. Compared to this
what’s the value of looking for words to say it
better. Fear persists, nonetheless.
I’m afraid. Afraid of dying. Afraid
of not writing it down because afterward, the after
is more horrendous and unstable than what remains.
We should all take note of this:
that we are flesh and we die.