The possibility kills me,
an unconscious thread,
an absurd yearning for another life,
which might wake me someday
like an overnight snow
outstretched across the field; white.
I lost my life to another life,
a new life will never come or never be,
even a horror like Kafka’s Metamorphosis
comforts me with the chance of another.
That savoring, blinding hope
robs me of this one; the only one I have.