Apathy

In the cloudy marshes that is my mind
I think dangerously of life
How insignificant it is
How I feel like I can crush it in my hands
Time is the passive, yet merciless killer
Granting sighs of relief every second
Will anyone commit you to memory?
Fifty years…
Or even one hundred years from now?
No one will care about your mundane existence
Those handfuls that knew you
Will chase close behind your coat tails
What is the purpose of the masses
Remembering your name?
How truly vain you are
Your precious mirror will smash in time
I smell death each time I exhale
These years…
These years will squander in mere minutes
Or shall they trudge, so painfully slow?
Sickness is tearing into my core
Feasting on what life I have left
But does it, truly matter?
Perhaps in death, is when I begin my life.