Strawberry Moon

It’s hard to believe,
But the clock has surely struck.
It is the last time.
The crickets no longer chirp.
Silence, not even a peep.
Tiny strips of skin,
Seemingly spontaneous,
Peel on my fingers.
Open palms to the night sky,
The full strawberry moon burns.
Bathing me in light,
I accept the way it feels,
Shedding old skin like a snake.
This is not renewal.
This is the end.