Author's Note- This poem is about a time where I struggled with a lot of intrusive thoughts about the concept of mortality-- none of these thoughts were intentional or wanted.

It’s formed by rocks,

Which undergo weathering.

It’s what dunes are made of,

Mounded by the wind.

It’s spread on a beach,

Admired by passersby.

The ominous clouds meandered in the sky, lightning electrocuting the air while Philip grimaced on his bed– or soon to be deathbed.