Tattered thread

The existence that I lead
Is but a simple thread
In the tapestry of my dreams
As I lie cold in my grave

I have lost count of iterations
Or the many relived terrors
The gods surely must hate me
To deny me a quiet sleep

My belabored wheezing breath
A whistling wind in the coffin hole
My erratic heavily-weighted heartbeat
A quake in the vicinity

My hunch-backed slow prod
The crackling of the dry coffin timber
And my illucid morbid thoughts
The wiggle of the fat maggots

I walk with my shaggy head low
Afraid you will notice the impostor
That am a fake imposing corpse
Buried yonder in the dark copse

This particular thread is unraveling
I can no longer hold the illusion
Someone is surely going to notice
That I am dead and don’t belong

Time to turn over and spin anew

© GIDRAF MWANGI