When The Old Die

I imagine that every generation experiences death in their own way.

In our old age, when that stop is more than ever certain,

I imagine every generation leaving behind a legacy

And giving scope to life in how they feel their last days.

As Grandpa was dying, I imagined the kind of mind

A man born in the fifties would carry while he survived,

And the sum of all experiences before he met the end,

How they measured up to what he saw and all the things he’d been.

A man who worked machines, watched tv, and prayed

Died hooked to a machine, with the television on, praying.

The same shows he always saw were the last ones he watched,

And the cigarette in his fingers was the last thing he touched.

Will I die surrounded by the things I see today?

Will I understand the world as I do now, the same way?

When my generation finally slips into the grave,

I wonder what the others will think of how we passed away..

Defiance In Love

Lucifer fell

Into the quiet twilight

To look through the window

Of a secluded home.

Her silver wings chilled

In the pine-scented air,

With the frost on her breath

Rising against the glass.

The last waneing candle

Threw light to the form

Wrapped up in a blanket

Collapsed on the floor.

Hand to the frame

And her face pressing close,

The light and the shadow

Danced over the reposed

While frost ate away

The one brain who still knew

What depths of tribulation

The Angels went through.

The insanity of fortune,

The lunacy of life,

The meaningless chasm

Of fractured love.

Reposed on the floor,

In seven breaths or less,

Of a sudden and quiet

Didn’t work anymore.

The death of a dream

Like a paradise of light

Lost from expectation,

From memory, and sight.

Lucifer fell

Away from the pane

With a sigh at her lips

And eyes shuttered with rage.

The frost in her wings,

The misery that aches,

The cruelty in love

Of defiance to faith.

 

Corpse Conscious

Visceral reality

Blood, muscle, and flesh,

All elements of the body

So palpably aware.

A carnal revelation

In litanies of pain

Written by dissection

On cerebellum walls.

So pliable and weak,

So simple to restrain,

So sensitive to touch,

Manipulatable and soft.

Do bones of the starved

Congeal into demons

To slake their thirst

On our living blood?

Do hordes of average men

Yearn for satisfaction

In the sight and feel

Of our mangled forms?

Should I desire much

To be just a ghost,

An incorporeal dust

Just floating alone?

And how would that soothe

The screaming I hear

From a younger sibling

Whose cat ran away?