Tuesday, September 20, 2011

"Soft of heart to succour Woe"

Well along pregnant, she was as alive as it's possible to be, I guess.

Then stuff happened. Accident, statistical exception, tragedy—

There are many ways to describe this sort of death. It had a bit of everything.

But finally one corpse inside another, inside a box.

[(Eurocentrically) Metaphorically speaking].


I have the words, and inside the words

Hopefully profound meditations on death, on life,

On pain—Within myself, I try to pay my respects

by thinking sombre thoughts.

Respects to Death, maybe.

To hers as my own. I fail.

The arrogance of the living.

Cain's offering was rejected, after all.


Death is normal, and only loss

Gives birth to grief; else it gets stuck in my throat

And dies coming out. It was never real.

And all there will have been for them to miss

Is me. And I moved on, leaving them bereft.

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