Death Becomes Us

“The idea of death can never be separated from the idea of God.”–Antoni Gaudi

Some things are a trigger.
When death comes a-knockin’
would you be obsequious,
smudgy, would you have
stood on your head?

Of course the idea of God
and death can’t be separated.
That dalliance in your head
so what became transparent,
almost clairvoyant?

Heart’s dissolution’s
pure matter, but is it?
Head trespasses body, makes
it divine, what of death–
return or sacrilege?

Breath dissipates.
So bewildering, where’re
you headed alone?
Your valediction forbade,
still I mourned.

Prompt:

Day 18. I waited all day, had to wait all day, having no idea what Robert Brewer would have asked for. Yet when the prompt came, it seemed so right. He asked for a death poem. Or a life poem, but no, death it is. What? Do you deal with it? How do you deal with it? Do be do be do. I know it’s a serious topic because it’s the-end-of-the-world-as-you-know-it. But people, like things, run their course. When death stares you down, do you feel like you’ve ran the full course? If you’re going to be undone, have you done everything you’d wanted to do, and of course it’s impossible to do everything so to rephrase, do you feel you’ve lived the life you were meant to have lived? Because it would mean you’re somehow ready to die? That it wasn’t all a mistake? Your life.

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