We are all falling,
Life is a drop towards ending,
You dear reader,
And I,
And we can no more delay or adjust the
Speed of our descent
Than flap our arms right now
And take flight towards the clouds,

And though we may aspire to the heavens
The only route out of life
Is down,
Drawn by that terrifying gravity
That draws us ever faster
As the years pass,
Accelerating steadily through childhood
Adolescence and young adulthood,

Streaking past the unknown
Mid point of our lives
But suddenly aware we have less to go
Than we can know and less to get
Than we already had,
And that as we hurtle out of middle age
Puts a scale to our brief existence,
And a reasonable sight of our end,

But these calculations are of no use,
As our muscles sag and our hair thins,
Skin wrinkled and transluscent,
Eyesight dimmed,
Because we are tripped
By illness or literally in a fall
And thus we reach beginning of the final bend,
Our flailing stops

As we reach our journey's end

The worst part of a funeral is not the sombre faces,
Nor the awkwardness of people
Who know not how to be at such a time,
It's not the heavy sense of sadness and loss
That permeates the air or the brash jollity of those
Who over compensate,

It's not standing to eulogise my friend
In so few minutes
When he was so vibrant and ALIVE,
Nor seeing in my mind's eye his face
As he lay recumbent in the coffin's cushioned dark
And airless embrace,

Not the sobs that came in public as I sat
After giving his farewell my all,
My first eulogy and sadly probably not my last,
No, the worst, the most awful thing was the wet thump
Of roses red falling on his coffin lid,
I tossed a handful of dry earth,

It sounded better,
Seemed more fitting,
An example followed by others,
A better more respecttful
And indeed final fare well,
Rest now Damien

Rest in peace
I will see you soon enough

**** romeo
&
**** juliet
just because
i’m just like them
dying for love

the first time i became acquainted with death, i was 24 years old. i didn’t quite understand my thoughts back then and it scared me back into submission.

the second time i became acquainted with death, i was 32 years old. it was today. i was driving around a curve and a large white van zoomed around the same curb on the opposite side, halfway in my lane. the van was so close i could make out what the driver looked like; late 20’s, golden blonde hair that was layered, swept back, and landed on his shoulders. he also had a goatee of the same color. i had no reaction; only this deep sense of calmness that it was going to be all over. in that split second, i welcomed death as if i had known It my whole life but It was lost to me long ago. in my mind’s eye, i see myself reaching out - to what? i do not know. i only knew, deep down, that if i kept reaching, death would take care of me. i see myself sighing with tear stained cheeks. finally, finally it would all be over. no more infinite, uncontrollable sadness. no more back breaking work to simply be able to exist in reality. no more disappointments, to myself and others, because i cannot control these feelings when i, “have no reason to be sad. no reason to be depressed.” the peace i felt in that moment formed a sob of relief in my throat. and the ****** up thing is that my mother…my beautiful, exceptional, beloved mother, was in the car with me. that ****** up thing is me, i realize, coming back to the present. i am ****** up and don’t deserve to be anyone’s daughter or aunt or sister or friend. i am a sick, twisted thing. and i am scared for others for the first time in my life.

then the van quickly swerves back into its lane and i am alive.

There she lay
In aged beauty
All passion spent
Now peace
In eternal sleep

She is gone
If we forget
The love she gave
Is ours to keep

We who knew her best
In life and in death
Are compelled by her noble way
To heed a greater love
Than that of flesh and blood

Let us sing her song again
Grateful is the key
Her spirit is ours
For all eternity

A Beautiful and A Bitter Shroud

When I was little, I found a magic box,
tucked under the eaves where
we were told not to go.
Something compelling about the
forbidden, triangular space,
sealed off by lath and plaster,
made me resolved, beyond curious.
I kicked and pulled until plaster shattered
and wood cracked, delightfully.
The large box was filled
with silk, organza and tulle,
the proud-worn gowns
of my mother's college days.
At those ***** she danced
in them, hair coiled up
and earrings sparkling.
It was not about the men, I knew,
but her need to be admired.
I don't recall a punishment
for opening the box
but she relented and allowed
my sister and I to put on
her finery and pretend.
We wrapped them round us
and twirled to imaginary waltzes,
stepping on long hems so many times
that  the gowns all came undone.
The rags were put away
and the room sealed up.
In my youth I recall but a few
times Mother gave in
and let us be children
or fairy princesses for a while.
Now she is old and finally
trying to wrap me in her shroud,
to make resentment drag me down
and envy of me, crippled with self-hate.
But that no longer works
and I tell her, finally grown
that this is not allowed.
I summon up pity and vague sympathy,
even if love left long ago.
I tell myself that
everyone dies alone.