Days to Come

You sleep soundly now.
Your breath is clockwork in your repose,
and your mind tries to trace the steps back
to where you went wrong.
I creep quietly now.
My breath is held in my stalk,
and my hand grips the handle of the blade
as I make you smile beneath your chin.
The years will fade
and decades will pass away,
and as children of days to come look back,
they will not remember today.
They will not remember today.