Sometimes, I wander towards my death.
Fleeting moments passing before my eyes,
Forgetting the trembling bedside cries,
Determined to draw another breath.
I’ll wonder, how time flies.
Little moments.

I’ll think back, to my childhood:
To chalk on asphalt, shoddy swings,
Oh, to feel flight—to have wings!
If only then I understood
The puppeteer, cutting strings.
Little moments.

The times of pride, of feeling great,
Frozen in history, for a while.
We’d speak about it with a smile
Until it had run its course, when it was late,
Then put away into a file.
Little moments.

They’d bring it up at the funeral, perhaps.
Remembering time in anecdotes,
To vaunt about when all of us could gloat
In small victories, in bits and scraps.
Wishing I’d see the speeches that they wrote.
Little moments.

Still, I can’t help but wonder.
Was it worth it all?
My little world fading on the hospice bed, by the rainfall,
Memories vanquished, torn asunder.
Desperately trying to hold on, to stall,
To remember. Little moments.

Yet thrust upon this earth, I confess:
What little choice do I possess?