The Prospect of Death

 (there are few things blessed with

 a proper ending

 being drained not of yield

 but inch by inch

 of reach)

 walls have been losing functionality

 or I am dissolving

 expired, worn out

 unwelcome

 (it is already extremely rare

 to exist

 and then ceasing to be

 is a gift)

 my presence is:

 flayed, peeled

 unwrapped naked

 layer by layer(good thing I have many)

 undressed by my fears

 I am present but also:

 faint, trivial, indistinct

 temporary as the weakest wind

 stripped off of any attribute

 exiled from categories

 piercing through all

 even time

 (just a handful of things

 have the privilege of being limited

 or having a certain feature concrete enough

 to define their temporal peripheries)

 my being has been expanding

 surrounding anything existing

 bulimically self-effacing

 though insatiable

  throwing up after eating

 is what I do for surviving(living)

 I even gulp down

            (Time)

 then throw

             Time

                     up

 my way of paddling

  

 life, I figured, is all there is

 even when all there is, is nothing

 the elimination and not-yet-eliminated

 I reside in-between