the infinite corridor

Who will inherit this life
that trails behind,
that lingers in the corners
with the souvenirs,
dressed in their conservative attire,
reading crumpled pigeons by the window,
that flutter weakly to the floor,
This life that passes at an arm’s length
in dim relief,
This constant calm restored?

Who gazes on this folded invitation
and gathers in the crease of wasted time,
Whose final contemplation falls
well inside the thought:
will a jacket be required? Will I?

Who leaps, and who remains,
Who is restless-who resigned,
Who moves politely through
in whispers of agreement
in well-conditioned rooms, and
Who will raise their voice
high above these names, and
Who will never try?

Who will inherit this life
lost in walks defined
by streets; in signs
only of familiar things,
lost in dreams
too easy to believe?

This life that lives and breathes,
but both indifferently,
this forsaken time, this lullaby
that soothes the hours into years,
This long extended afternoon
spent watching sunlit patches
moving slowly across the floor,
until, folding into walls,
they are seen no more.

Who will inherit this life
that dies inside,
This infinite corridor?