TRUE?

TRUE?

time passes;
words disappear

hard angle, narrow
algorithmic
    minimalism becomes

my mode of being

body
    shrinking, mind folding
its wings

but soul
       now

hears the countdown, sees
its target plain
as day

target, trajectory, flight-
path confirmed

end of
    the poem itself
lined up, what

could be
more
   painful, beautiful,
final, true?