Archive
08/17/08
Shadowed If only I could have spoken, candidly, With my three-minute-, three-day-, three-month-old soul, My articulating three-year-old spirit,
Surely, it would have told me, in no uncertain words, That what most concerned it about the world Was death's imposition on existence.
Profound? No, to be sure, Not the concept, anyway — the prospect of dying — Especially after we go through so many precarious hoops
Just to be, be born, survive parturition, Assimilate into humanity's flawed civilization, Grope to accommodate the cosmos.
Death, regardless of our awareness, enters our minds, Infects our perceptions of life, Leads us to see destiny as a gossamer guessing game,
An apocalyptic riddle with no answer, Fate as immortality's dark, dread enemy, Who lurks in the mists obscuring the mystery.
Now that I've lived sixty-seven years, Nothing much surprises me About goings and comings, sowings and reapings. After all, I've been forced to bear painful witness To the morbidly prolonged trial, by moribundity, of my father, Who refused to let go, even after God said to,
And the slow, enervating unraveling of my mother, Whose hubris keeps her mercilessly alive, Persuades her she's meant to endure, for eternities.
Why is man shadowed by death, So long before he is no more? Can it be that existence is just the ghost of Thanatos?
08/17/08
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