There are lines in my skin,
A wavering taunt;
But I’ve grown old a thousand times
And I will die a thousand times more
I’ve been married twice,
Had children, not all with names,
Some I don’t even recall.
But I shall marry again, perhaps even twice,
And children; a thousand more.
Sometimes I die,
In a room, in a bed
Or on the floor.
But no need to scream
‘Is she dead’?
For I will die a thousand
This poem is about looking into the future; how we go over events in our heads that haven’t yet happened or may never happen. If we live moments enough in our mind, can they eventual seem real or at least strikingly familiar? I’ve particularly thought of this with regards to getting older and life’s impending death. (You can always trust me for an optimistic spark to your daily reading!)
Also, by thinking and imagining the less fortunate futures, do we tamper with our present?