Rot

I cannot feel the whole of my left leg

And I may never feel it all again.

It didn't crack at once--not like an egg--

But slowly slipped away. The time was when

I had two working legs, and then it wasn't.

I cannot draw the line between them cleanly.

Sometimes the body works; sometimes it doesn't

And though I feel the latter all too keenly

Time won't go back. The slow deterioration

Is how I know I'm mortal. We all are.

This time on Earth is merely a vacation;

The time we aren't is always greater far.

We cram so much into that life, but still

Death and decay both win. They always will.