I will spin my hair into silver,
my skin into leather,
my eyes into milky marble,
my senses into stillness
and my days into memories of ghosts.
I will grow and weather and buckle and fold,
collapsing in on myself as the trongest of towers
finally yields to the subatomic cracks endemic to its mortar.
Get Kurzweil on the phone, ring up Gray,
tell them I have complaints to lodge,
pleas to make, petitions to file.
I rail against the fading of my genetic sequencing,
the collapse of such simple bonds
and infinitely fall fractures,
the flaw in my design
that fails to render me
immortal.