the day looks weary,
the night grows mold,
but nestled between the eyelids of the day
a song about sleeping for eternity
lay
olivia puts down the magazine she had been reading for the past half hour when her name is called. she looks around to confirm that there are no other olivia’s in the room that the stern looking woman with brunette hair pulled back too tightly might be referring to.
no one else budges. so olivia continues to get up from her sedentary position. her joints in her leg creak a little. her knees feel stale. her skin tightens with horripilation. as she walks over to the large metallic swinging doors, she thinks, i forgot to eat breakfast. but she didn’t need to, either way.
when i’m gone,
don’t let no one profit from my death,
when i’m gone,
dump me off the side of the road,
let the buzzards eat me
cold or hot, i’m not picky
when i’m gone,
i don’t want none of that fanfare howdy-do-ya,
i’d like to be gone,
and rest
Fred Aiken Writing 