I would write a book but it might become a tomb, not unlike the womb from which I was catapulted into a world that had a name for me before my Mother could see me.
What are you doing here?
As if my presence diminishes your existential essence than perchance your time has come.
The temporal covers your body with the ease with which you breathe and to exalt your position is but an imposition before my eyes.
I could cover your body with words but will they be heard?