A Quiet Reflection on the Presence of Mortality

An untitled poem

Memory is but a wisp

within the misty tendrils of destiny.

I am ever bound

to the curse of the mind.

Death.

She calls me with her

all-consuming embrace.

She is always distant

yet never far.

Some days I yearn

for her visit.

Like a lost friend

I welcome her with

open arms.

—Destany Stevens