Intimations Of Mortality (whisperings of death)
Intimations Of Mortality (whisperings of death)
I saw a word, one could say
It caught my eye, a strange word.
Being victim to logolepsy1 compelled
I was to steal and use it.
The word? Moriturism (noun),
Meaning “insomnia-borne jolt of awareness
That you will die one day”. Is “to die” a verb?
“Death’ is definitely a noun, a Proper Noun
And an abstract noun’ Pretty impressive,
As nouns come and go. I thought, I pondered;
I wondered: does that word apply to me?
What word? (Rewind!) Moriturism!
No!
I think of death often; generally, it doesn’t need
To creep up on me. Hint, I am “of that age”.
I think of all the things I have left to achieve,
Complete and succeed in. I would like to understand
The structure of a symphony, maybe even to attempt
to write one. I nurture in my mind the outlines of a poem
So majestic, about the deaf Beethoven composing
And conducting his Ninth Symphony. Magnificent!
As avariciously as I cling to life, I retain an awareness
Of death. When silence will hang over the things
That were part of my daily ritual, my sense of purpose,
My reason for being. In that silence, you will hear
Variously Cohen's Hallelujah, Bridge Over Troubled Water,
Beethoven's Ninth, Tull’s “Thick as a Brick”, or the like.
Yes, I retain an awareness of death; I resist and resent it.
I’m still blooming (what did I hear say? Blooming useless?)
No sir, blooming. A new word, “oubaitori (noun), meaning
“Idea that people, like flowers, bloom in their own time
And in their individual ways”. Yes, meaning?
“I’m a late bloomer! Yes, that’s what I am, a late bloomer.”
“An obsession with words”