Death’s Touch

Here I sit at this table writing a poem.

How fitting, for one who is dead.

I have felt death’s touch.

It is… cold.

Much like how I have become.

Am I really so old, that I have resigned to being done?

Perhaps, or maybe, I have just been overwhelmed.

There has been too much death for me to process.

And with each day, my life force becomes less.

I can’t comprehend it.

And yet, it feels so…familiar.