Conversing to My Self

For no reason other than routine, I continue on
Maintaining the same rhythm as ever before
Left after right, Right after left
A constant stream of motion as energy flows side to side
This man's life courses through me, that which is left
One look at his body, and a fool would think him well
But with a glance at me, even a fool can tell this man is torn
Torn and tattered as am I, beyond simple repair
Held together by waning hopes of longevity
Artificial fibers of glue releasing their death grip on nature, on death