self

Every day I become less a thing of substance
My body is decommissioning, winding down
No synapses are firing; the mind is shot
Batteries are dead, the reasons run out
Self is the back of a bitter stranger
If I walked out this grey, barren night
and lay down in the road like a madman
there's no way I would count the stars
More likely I'd lifelessly eyeball the tar
or close my eyes and barely feel a final rain
No matter, just non-corporeal dead-weight
In the morning I'd barely be remembered
Just recalled sketchily as something...
...something? Was there something here
that used to be a person? I could swear...
But there would be nothing, no memory
just a patch in the road a shade lighter than the rest.