than I am this morning.
So death can’t judge me,
even minute to moment.
Who am I to myself
other than jealous of birds?
Because they get to touch the sky,
and never have to ask why.
I wish I were an idiot,
indifferent to death.
I wish I were the grim reaper,
herself defiant to life.
This morning I was a hammer,
tonight I am at least a sickle.
Who am I to myself
other than jealous of birds?
Because they get to touch the sky,
and never have to ask why.
I wish I were an idiot,
indifferent to death.
I wish I were the grim reaper,
herself defiant to life.
This morning I was a hammer,
tonight I am at least a sickle.