Death

The world is not simply a thing experienced
by a thing experiencing the world.
The world does not stop
When ours does.
Fade to black
As comfortable as sleep,
(At least the thing itself,
But not, perhaps, its prelude.)

The event-horizon of experience,
From which no thought escapes
Prevents death from ever being directly experienced –
No one dies.
There is only experiencing,
And then there is not.
Those few precious moments before experiencing stops
Are
Not
Few.

Toiling ‘til the end
Not a thought to spare
To plan for a death
That complements the book-end
Of our birth.
Like ants
We scurry to and fro
Absorbed in work
Ascribing significance greater than deserved
Desperate to give life meaning,
Desperate to muffle
What, we do not know.

It’s not as if we do not have enough time.
Drowning in the plethora of our ray of life,
We have time enough
For boredom.
We spend our lives killing time
Coughing and sputtering as the fountain of life
Proves too generous.

Boredom.
Yes.
Boredom.
Is anything so ever-present,
Yet so ignored?
Like a prophet
Never accepted in his own country.

Until “it” happens.
When our ray of life is shown
To be but a segment.
When the arrow of time is shown
To have arced towards our hearts from the moment of our birth.
Quick now!
Live!

Our rage, now quieted,
Humbled by death’s indifferent march,
Cannot see
With irony
Men, scurrying,
Like ants
carrying our corpse back to the hill
To be stripped bare –
Some to the queen
Some to the workers.
Fighting, even, over the scraps,
Blissfully ignorant of their participation
In the desecration of their own grave
And the spoliation of their own souls.

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