Death, the enigmatic friend of us all
Death. I will read Dickinson tonight. Her poems tend to
focus on Death.
"Because I could not stop for death / He kindly stopped for
me / The carriage held just ourselves / And immortality."
Such nice lines. Lines. Lines of smashed sedatives.
Do the stars shine during one's ascent?
Does the Earth appear in harmony as we look down?
Can God tell we are hypocrites?
Will He be compassionate and send Minos a note to place me
in circle 1?
I don't want to be a petrofied tree.
I don't want to lie immersed in myself.
I don't want to befriend reality.
I don't want to find meaning in nothing.
I don't want to extrapolate the meaning of pain.
I don't want to...I don't want to.
I want Death to visit me.
Death will not knock on my door.
Death is preoccupied:
Killing the innocent.
But Death bypasses me.
He will not give us what we want when we want it.
He waits to prey on the unsuspecting.
I cannot play the role of Death.
I would become a silent tree.
And I would be forgotten forever.