the River of forgetfulness

I am dying as I sit.

I lose a dimension.

The silver track of time empties into the distance,

The white sky empties of its promise,

                                            like a cup.

This is a disease I carry home,

                                            this is a death.

Again, this is a death.

Is it the air,

The particles of destruction I suck up?

Am I a pulse

That wanes and wanes,

                                            facing the cold angel?

Is this my lover then?

This death, this death?

Is this the one sin then,

this old dead love of death?

~Sylvia Plath