My Face Is Muffled In My Mother's

If Death Itself Were To Die, Would It Have A Ghost, And Would The Ghost Of Death Visit The Dead In The Guise Of Someone Alive, If Only To Fright Them From Any Temptation To Return?

But The Body Fails Us And The Mirror Knows, And We No Longer Insist That The Gray Hush Be Carried Off Its Surface By The Cloth, For We Have Run To Fat, And Wrinkles Encircle The Eyes And Notch The Neck Where The Skin Wattles, And The Flesh Of The Arms Hangs Loose Like An Overlarge Sleeve, Veins Thicken Like Ropes And Empurple The Body As Though They Had Been Drawn There By A Pen, Freckles Darken, Liver Spots Appear, The Hairah, The Hair Is Exhausted And Gray And Lusterless, In Weary Rolls Like Cornered Lint.

I Don't Know Myself, What To Do, Where To Go... I Lie In The Crack Of A Book For My Comfort... It's What The World Offers... Please Leave Me Alone To Dream As I Fancy.

Words [are] More Beautiful Than A Found Fall Leaf.

[as] Authorities "over" Us Are Removed, As We Wobble Out On Our Own, The Question Of Whether To Be Or Not To Be Arises With Real Relevance For The First Time, Since The Burden Of Being Is Felt Most Fully By The Self-determining Self.