Mourn – A Poem

Anonymous, Writer



I am cursed with another thought.

In this thought, I am pointing.

Except I am pointing at myself.

I am pointing at my head.

Index and thumb.

My finger feels like cold metal.


In this thought, 

my wrist jolts.

My hand moves quicker than I can perceive.

And in one fluid motion,

the room begins to fade.`

What comes next is silence.




Stay focused.


No funerals. 




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