He who fears death is already dead.
What will remain is words, the ones pronounced as those
unsaid. And then the rhythm of the former as
the silence of the latter. All the rest is naught,
an utter naught, right now, not after. Like the Moon’s
far side. Or else the very center of the Earth.
Some things do not add up though, facts do not compute.
So leptons, quarks and bosons sure there are, no doubt,
and gravitons perhaps. But why no one descants
on chronons? Would they make the world diverse or change
the life of beings made of empty space? Does time
exist inside the void? Does time exist at all?
I'm sorry, never would I rain on your parade.
I know that nothing I do know, is maybe this
a paradox? And yet I know that death can give
perspective. Not a genius, not a chump, not one
who likes to squeeze the trigger, I delight in my
reflection, be it sunrise, sundown, or just day.
But on a lighter note, the night is also fine.
Lie low, my father used to tell me when I was
a child. I then discovered that I might as well
fly high, for there is no do-over, while regret
is viler than defeat. They say that time is of
the essence. It’s a real frill, the hoaxes’ hoax.
Yet dad’s excused, for he could hardly know the score.
Like every man, I think I’m using time. But can
we make whatever use of naught? I swear to do
all I propose to do, however all I do
is swear. I’d better walk outside, not write. It’s not
how many words, but which. Above all things, to whom.
To round it off, a word is worth its wording's worth.
One day I'll sight a dahlia mid a field, close in
to pick it thinking it’s a blowball, bend my back
to let my fingers reach for it, at which the sky
will pluck my stem instead. A horse-drawn hearse will be
too much, an urn will too. A breath of wind will do.
So after Virgil, let me rage before I die.