II. The Quiet Undoing

Part of a poetry novella

I knew not when I slipped away,
A slow unthreading of the seams,
A name, a face, a voice of clay,
Now scattered in the dust of dreams.

The mirror shows a borrowed guise,
Not mine, yet worn without a cry,
And in the hush of moonlit skies,
I watch another learn to die.

Yet still I ache for what I was,
Though time has swept it out to sea
The hollow where the shadow draws
Still hums the faintest note of me.