My time here is nearing to a close. I have nothing left but faded memories now. This is not the house that I grew up in. This is not the land that I used to walk. This is not the sky that lit up my world. This is not the air that used to fill my lungs.
This is the land of the sick and terminally ill. The sun does not warm my face, yet icy winds prevail to penetrate my bones beneath; crystallizing vermillion snowflakes throughout my porous marrow. I cannot breath here anymore, for the air is filled with a sharp, yellow dust, and the spicy mist of abandoned corpses.
I wander through empty squares and forgotten streets, and stumble upon stumps where pillars of justice once stood. The steps are still here, but they don’t really lead anywhere, anymore. I crouch, and clutch myself for the chill that will not leave me.
I look around for something to keep me warm, and find a soiled, tattered flag about to blow into the street. The chills begin to pulse, and I am overwhelmed with a violent shake. But I overcome it, just in time to grab that cloth and wrap it around me, before it blows out of reach — yet it there is no relief, as it is only veil-thin.
Dusk is about to fall and I need a place to lay my head for the night; just for a few hours. I will be on the move, soon again. For if I lie too long, the rigor mortis will set in, and I may never get back up again. I cannot let myself waste away like that, no — not here, not like all of the others.
Anyhow, I was taught never to die on the length of my back, but on the width of my feet. And even if I am frozen in my footsteps, perhaps, later on, when this land is rediscovered, I can stand as a totem — warning newcomers of the imminent mortality that awaits them here, should they decide to advance any further.