A Walking Coffin

The supports are rotting.

I feel every creak and pop,

A symphony of decrepitude,

Joints unreliable and failing.

It's harder to arise each morning,

Back and hips sore from sedentary slumber,

Eyes blurry from disrupted sleep.

Ambulating more slowly every day,

Distances seem longer than they ever were before,

Familiar routes grown strange and treacherous.

I don't recognize the face in the mirror,

Supple skin grown saggy,

Jowls grown heavy and pendulous.

Only the eyes are familiar,

Still bright and glowing,

The last ember slowly fading,

Witness to the relentless passage of time.

I will be buried in this body someday.