When my mind
Restarts its spinning
With the thinkings its been
Minding, I feel dead.

When my cataractic eyes
Outlive, not to my surprise,
My mother’s, I feel dead.

When my heart
Takes a hike to nowhere it likes,
With the heat of beat slow-fading,
I feel dead.

When my arthritic eyes
Understand the whys,
I am my mother, I feel dead.

When my soul
Goes off cavorting
With whatever dreams its
Spinning, I feel dead.

When my spirit dots its eyes,
Stripped-out by stupid sighs,
I loved my mother, and, I feel dead.

Yet, dead
Is subjective…

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 4/19/07