The Jumble

From a crack in the door it stares me down—
this mess I’ve made of life.
The night takes on a different sheen.
I’m growing old at last.
Twenty years have come and gone,
since I began to die.
The flowers wilt, and summers pass
But I will not come back.
Now the darkness, thick and black,
It hungers for my bones.
And I can run, but none escape
the jumble left behind.
I might as well stand stock still
and sink into the ground.
And twenty years will pass again,
Before my bones are found.