But It's Not Mine

I'm pretty sure I'm left for dead
beneath a swirling ceiling fan.
I'm cold as you
and turning blue.
That line I can't forget
sings somewhere in my head,
but warmth is just a memory
and love is just a fantasy.
Heart beats slower now,
breath breathes light and futile.
This room becomes a grave:
so still as I lay bleeding.
A crimson carpet drowns me
and imaginary voices chide.
You lied: said I was strong,
but still my will can't save me.
My fading thoughts drift far
and I see you like you're here.
In that brightened doorway,
I can almost taste you.
Life flashes, but it's not mine.
Three.
Two.
One.

****************************************************

I had a line in my head for this poem, but I forgot it. Then, I got another line in my head and ran with it. This is a fictional room and a fictional suicide. Don't go all nuts and call 911 on me.

There's this show "Fringe" and in one episode, they hypothesized that the last image you see before you die gets frozen in your memory, behind our eyes. (This is a totally fictional show, for the record.) This is sort of a spin on that idea except it freezes on whatever image the mind drifts to last rather than what's actually there. I guess, if I died tomorrow, this is what I think I would think about before I was gone.





"It might be tomorrow. You can't tell the minute or the hour. Well, you just will get ready: you got to die." Willie McTell You Got To Die