Motion

My body’s always in motion

running through unseen routines

forcing air, chest rising and falling,

heart-blood coursing  

through a million small chambers

to glow red again.

Even at rest

my chest rises to cold air

and drinks it in, clean and clear,

and with heady ambition,

I run,

my aging legs pounding

this treadmill

to nowhere.

But I know this

is a temporary condition.

Soon enough

my blood will congeal and

pool into still, cool wells.

No more will I wake

though bright morning itself

should shake my shoulder

and with swelling song

bid me rise,

for I am not made

for eternity’s day.

Death waits

and will not

be turned away.