As a death bird I lay my feathers on the grass.
Concept of nearly feeling alive.
Flourishing seems like the growth of the flowers in the winter.
Legs feeling like rocks.
An anchor on my body.
A tombstone at my feet.
I put a cross on the place where my soul used to be, and I take a step back on where I left my mark.
I won’t embrace the dread, even though it is running faster than me.