as Louis had somewhere said in his long ago childhood.
His face now whiter than the page
his lips a purple that frightened.
Lady Death's kiss an exquisite bliss.
"No...not yet...not yet!" she whispered in his ear
returning him to himself.
This now the grand pain.
Who was it who said?
"I am...myself still though the world were
turned the wrong side out."
as if soliloquising upon a stage
trapped in a cone of light
out of which he can not break out.
"Ah, Truth... . . .that liar!"
The joy of having a heart attack is ...surviving it enough to be able to write about it. The revenge of the words! How dare the poet's body go against him!
Who was it said? Why that was Sir William Cornwallis the Younger England’s first essayist in the style of Montaigne. He was the first to write a substantial book of “familiar” essays with the critical consciousness of working within a new vernacular prose genre that showed a human making his identity from doubt doubt and being prepared to question the who of what he was.
The title of the poem is me attempting a mock Shakespearean line in which the truth of my dying is exposed by the fact that I live to tell the tale.