Mortality

The clock calls: ITS TIME
And I turn into 
A wrinkly aging pumpkin
One that has no more use 
Except to rot in an attic 
Of some has-been shop
With fashion that has long ago ceased to be fashionable
I, too, will parish like an old newspaper 
And future generations wouldn't even know what I was
Or that I was
Maybe a descendant long from now
Will reach to the attic
Dig up the old written words
And imagine a person such as myself 
A great great great grandmother
That was hardly great at all
Just a human that breathes until it stops to
Just a human obsessed with living forever
Knowing tragically well that fairytales don't come true 
Just a human
Nothing more
With organs and blood and failures
And skin that sags and voice that cracks
Just a human
Mortal
Mortal
Mortal
Fucking mortal.

​***