by Anna Pomeroy ’23
I understand why old people are so content with death.
Our bones don’t grow brittle from their long-lasting bends––
But their existence becomes the unstable foundation for
the external skin that takes the beating of life.
It’s hard, life.
I mean, we’re meant to make it––
But there comes a time when our eyes have no tears left to shed,
And no band aid could ever cover the infinite bleeding wound our heart has become.
We accept this.
Because while we may not wake up one morning,
The birds will.
The sun will still shine,
And the grass will grow into the next season.