We’ll not be ceremonious.
Still, winter. But no we’re not ramshackled.
There’s a twitchy moth.
The flame, oh, the flame.
Sure it will give out.
It circles back to dying.
Withering. The last, frugal,
unheroic, unadorned self.
Then are you not the more cherished? Are we,
in sickness and death? Unflagging love?
Where is your God now? Coughing, spitting?
Comfort for the soul?
Well then. There we worship, anointed in
the shrine of secret hopes.
Prompt: So my thoughts have veered toward death. Is death a taboo subject? Memento mori (“remember that you must die”) is a poetic motif. What must one fulfill before death? Let your poem refect on mortality and immortality. My writing, like yours, is an immortality project. Of course it is. Our poems become our living essences after we die.