I think about Death
more often than I care to admit.
more often than I care to admit.
I wonder if it’s lonely to be
Love’s final kiss or
Happiness’ tragic end or
Sadness’s sheer, sweet relief.
Death, I just want to know are
a scythe and a pen all that
different? Sometimes it’s
impossible to distinguish
under blankets of whiteness
suffocating joy, love, life
because of it’s own ancestral
spiritual desperation.
I only think about Death on
Tuesdays or maybe it’s
Wednesdays, or it could be
the weekend lingering on.
But I don’t think about dying.
I think about violence.
I think about assault.
I think about trauma and abuse,
But I don’t think about dying.
I think about rebirth, returning.
I think about wise, weathered trees.
I think about purpose and meaning.
And when I sleep, sometimes
I wonder what that could be
like, if there’s still hope left
over once nightmares are done
playing themselves on repeat.
Death, I just want to know are
you extra careful with those
traveling your way without their
own consent? Do you greet them
with the flowers withheld, with
safety and support, do you
treasure their humanity in ways
the sun, the moon never did?
I think about Death,
more often than I care to admit.
Some days the allure of eternal
sleep is so rich, I taste it.
