POEMS ABOUT DYING

Poems about dying are not poems about dying.

They focus on the will to live. The clock might be ticking

A bit louder (it always has been ticking, our frenzied activity

Drowned it out). So, this is the time we choose, do our picking.

We have choices. We always did; we always will

to choose the constructive, the moral path; integrity

all those things I believed proper and correct to live

to give structure and meaning to our lives for posterity

Is it true that we somehow achieve detachment

when and as we write? Another self floating, unhindered

by gravity? Watching us, our choice of tone, tense, and bewilderment

guide us and direct us as we explore the themes that have consumed us

Detachment? Yes? No? Maybe? It's more like ocean waves surging

forward before retreating. Where does our interest lay? Only the items left behind; 

things forgot; now lay before us. Do you remember that?

Do you remember when and who, and how you felt? That exhilaration

Of feeling, was akin to inebriation; getting drunk on one's sense

of humanity. The hangover? Ah, yes, the hangover. They always came

straight after. Was it worth it? Frolic, yeah! Exhilaration is exhausting

one needs rest, and quiet moments to think; compose, and decompose.

Decompose? Not as dramatic as it sounds. If you can compose

you can de-compose; rip a thing apart, and start again. We do it

all the time; out of spite, carefully considered destruction, or frustration

Poems about dying are not poems about dying.

They focus on the will to live. The clock might be ticking

A bit louder (our hearings failing), memories become more demanding

of resolution. The race is on, numbered are our days. Who’s counting?