By the light — from the lampshade on the ceiling that strikes both my face and the glass in a mirror screen, I can observe the already prominent features the bones of my skull,
I see my death, I see my corpse waiting inside for the time to come out when it can take precedence over the one whom, until this day, will have moved under this skin.
Death is looming in my cheekbones, my forehead, my chin,
I see it in great calm though, from a place other than this declining body.
So, I see it but do not fight it,
I am not, tonight, the one over whom the corpse will one day take precedence.
©FJ August 2024
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Notes & Silence 
Thus, you become your own memento mori.
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And who will remember after me
Once the corpse is no more.
Am I as universal ?
Maybe…to those with eyes to see,
As each corpse in a mirror too.
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To misquote Gibran, you will be even in the silent memory of God.
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Universality doesn’t make it any less painful a process.
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Or less necessary, I suppose.
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