There are two kinds of death.
The first is the one most mortals fear,
eye with growing trepidation
from backs bowed from age weights.
It plays cello with nerves, turns bones to chalk
and with the snap of fingers,
tegument is reduced to a busy map,
in the flight of youth, disease, or both;
it’s never guilty of discrimination.
The twin brought forth the day one is born;
to celebrate life is to acknowledge
the shutting of eyes into continuum.
The second snatches seconds from minutes,
minutes from hours, hours from days,
days from months, and months from years.
Tis the interpretation of every sigh ladened breath,
words swallowed in a chasm of silence,
the imagined accusations,
pellets stinging back,
breaking teeth, and gouging eyes.
The sand storm that fills lungs from dust bowls of indiscretions,
between the micro-centimeters of grinding teeth, under eyelids,
and sheets against skin – remnants of sin.
The second snatches pieces of peace,
relieving of simple pleasures,
a thief that breaks in through the back door,
takes up residence within your walls.
It dares you to speak,
to reclaim your beleaguered existence
it plunders, mocks you to find your voice
and claim your possession.
It knows without agency,
you cannot—will not utter that which it holds over your head,
you are but an empty shell
a relic of what was,
should have,
and could have been.
omobolablog 