“I had others,” he thought, as he glanced through the list
Of writings writ by past him.
“Many more, fine ones too, but I cannot remember the words-surely they were meaningful, if I could just recall the meanings.”

They were not his though, at least anymore,
Though penned by his hand and spoke by his tongue and echoing out by his sound.
And his meanings were gone because they’d belonged
To the lost and found poet who’d scribbled them down.

It was then that he felt breath in his lungs, in
And out, and knew the truth of it all:
“I’ve air in me, it flows through me now, and air is what’s led me fall.”

His brother had left long ago,
But he could not say when, if asked now.
“I don’t remember a funeral,
But I feel he died all the same.
He shrunk and he shrunk and then was gone,
Just as soft as he came.”

So he sat down and wrote
This little ode, to note
That he acknowledged his change.
“Though in the end,” he penned
“I must acknowledge, it all seems rather inevitable, and too much the same.”