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”