Sunday, February 12, 2012

Death

So, I’ve been thinking about death,
                    the ripping of it
and how, natural as it is,
                               it doesn’t feel right.

But what is right?
         And who am I
to know, to say, to judge?

The part of every story that we hate.
The words mixed up, the prose awkward
                                              and we always want a different ending.


                                                 And I’ve been thinking that departure can feel
                                                                                                                like attack
or like a rapid current in the agony of life’s ebbing river.
            About how the oscitance of passage
                                                      pulls in, too, the protesting pieces
                                                                      of those left behind.so we’re
                                                                              each time a little less
whole. 


Yes, the gateway
yawns, lazy-like and shards of our
glass hearts fly in with the summoned. 


                                           Maybe they’re collected, those bits, constructed anew
and returned.
But I don’t know. 


Immanent, Innate, born to die.  To live.
                           But still.

Death
declares her will, her time and we gape (each time) in shock. 
              How dare she?
                            She advances with a vow.
                                                             We retreat, denying.

The sum and substance in the end so brief and we realize we’ve only skimmed.
             And who or what is there to loathe when life at last is finished?
                No.  Bitterness is for those here and we alienate ourselves from the inevitable
                                                               and from love, which is all we really have.
                                                                       Our reflections,
baseless
because mocking death travels with a mixed bag and we want
                                                                                       nice and tidy.
Who can handle the profundity of the commonplace fact of finality, the rhymeless,
                                   unpoetical and unrehearsed tragedy when all
                                               along we’ve begged for clowns.
                                                                                          So, now,
fumbling, we place  flowers (which, too, will die) by words engraved, words,
                                    too few.

                                                   Our hearts, raw, ache, incompetent to
beat alone within the poverty of our existence.
                 We become
                       beggars who know not anymore what we
                                      want- more or less?
                                                     Though distinct in details, death is not diverse.
But still, I feel my words to be like death, an interrupted sequence.
             I have no lines to close with.






submitting at dverse

2 comments:

  1. Lovely, just lovely, taking my breath away. My thoughts and emotions hang on each word as you wind out this tale, this story, the reflection on what ultimately makes us real in some undefinable way. The beauty of death, its terror, the gulph that it opens up at our feet, your thought traces so dearly, so caringly that I see why it is that we must attend to death, as much as it attends to us. I want to reread this over and over since I know that it will repay me newer insights, newer beauties.

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  2. whew nicole this rocks...death, what a tough one to tackle so many emotions tied up in it...i hope that when my time comes i embrace it with grace....some of my fav lines...

    The sum and substance in the end so brief and we realize we’ve only skimmed.
    And who or what is there to loathe when life at last is finished?
    No. Bitterness is for those here and we alienate ourselves from the inevitable
    and from love, which is all we really have

    ReplyDelete