Dead But Still Alive

The definition of living, what a curious thing.
Surely it must read 'Moving, breathing and a beating heart.'
I move, slowly, as if dragging limbs of lead through treacle.
I breathe, panting, gasping for oxygen after the smallest exertion.
My heart beats, erratically, so slow it's uncomfortable or beating out of my chest.

I tick all the boxes for being alive,
But I am sure as hell not living.
Life passes me by, monotonous and dull.
I'm not grabbing life with two hands,
Rather, it slips through my fingers like sand.
I watch as each grain falls,
Hoping, no, begging, screaming at my hands to move.
To make some tiny effort to hold onto just a miniscule amount of precious sand.
The song of a skylark, or the colours of a butterfly,
And yet they will not move.
I am destined to watch my own life pass me by,
No skylarks or butterflies, just varying shades of grey.