This Old Life

January twenty-sixth.
Today I woke up
suffocating
under blue sheets
and grey overcast.

Another january,
I lie still, until the day 
is gone.
then
I walk to your cemetary
and lay a wreath of myself.

I always thought dying
was the worst thing.
Now I know 
that it is not so.

What do you do?
What can you do?

There is no revenge on everything,
the years pass
and stay dead.

Exhausted
I have already spent myself
last year,
still hanging on for May
and a voice that'll say:

Let there be light.

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