Every day I am faced with my own mortality
I see it in the dying leaves of fall
The old people I meet in the subway
The young people I work with constantly 
Reminding me that my time is imminent.

So every day I kill myself a little
Not with poison
Not with knives and guns
But by walking, talking, breathing
Every breath I take wearing down
My lungs a little
Every move I make Using up my body
Microscopically at first but the older I get 
Exponentially the damage grows
Till one day when I’m 96 I will take one 
Breath and my lungs will fall asleep.
My heart will pump one. Last. Measly pump
My muscles, already atrophied and exhausted 
From a life time of lifting mugs
Overflowing with emptiness and living will
Let out a sigh of relief as they expire till
All that is left is my brain
Consciousness barely clinging to fleeting life

What will become of ME?
Will I ever be I again?