We die.
No news to anyone here,
but in all the lush and frantic
moments that make up days,
the inevitability of death lies in a sealed envelope
in the victorian desk drawer
locked with a key.
The heart knows
the time and the manner,
I suspect, and
that beating soft and tender fruit of life,
mine,
calls to the icy fingers of some immortal
to hold me in a mango death grip squeeze
each night.
This heart, I suspect,
thinks it good
that my body battles the passing of me,
in the moments of desperation for air.
My horror dreams
have me up and out of the bed,
turning on lights,
but light does not provide oxygen
and the outside summer thickness
hides oxygen in blankets of steam.
The cat wonders if he is dreaming
as I join him under the moon.
The life dream has lost its key, dear cat.
I can not go gently, just yet,
and the night is not good
who steals from me not only what I think of as me
but takes my loves and drowns them
into the depths of the sea.
At night, I am living death
as a calling to look deeper
to unlock and open the drawer –
to do whatever it takes to find out
who is the I am
who never dies
before I do again.
Life as Improv 